


out of the flames

by Mariyekos



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Feels, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mild Gore, Missing Scene, Panic Attacks, Post Tragedy of Duscur, Pre-Monastery, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 68,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23507566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mariyekos/pseuds/Mariyekos
Summary: An in-depth look at Dimitri's life and recovery following the Tragedy of Duscur as he tries to readjust to a life forever altered.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Dedue Molinaro, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd & Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	1. Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally my NaNoWriMo project, the first 50,000 words being written between November 2nd-15th of 2019. Since then I've gone back and rewritten the first two chapters entirely, upping the word count by about 80% . Right now I'm going through and revising the rest, which means the later material is written, but not quite ready. This fic of course begins immediately following the Tragedy of Duscur, and so far goes into the weeks following, to the time where Dimitri has 'recovered.' I'll likely either end it once he and Felix experience _that _battle, or once he reached the academy. So, a novelization of the time in between, of sorts.__  
>  _  
>  _Note: Chapter 1 includes the heaviest descriptions of violence and gore that you'll find in the fic (which is not much at all, and not worse than what Dimitri says between chapters 13-17 if you ask me). It also has a few more instances of stream-of-consciousness writing than the rest of the fic, given Dimitri hasn't really had a chance to process trauma and is feverish, which isn't a great combo for coherence. Things gradually calm down as the fic goes on, so while the beginning is heavy, it should fade slightly as things move along._  
> _  
>  _  
>  _Thank you if you've stuck around after this long note, and without further ado, I hope you enjoy._  
> _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Addition after chapter 6: Just a reminder - Dimitri will not start out acting exactly as he does in-game because he's four years younger and was recently traumatized. He's going to get there, bit by bit. But he's still only 13, and was whatever degree of sheltered a royal kid would be. He's got a lot of room to grow, and this fic aims to explore that growth over time.

Through fever and constantly aching wounds Dimitri dreamed half-dreams, caught somewhere in a realm between unconsciousness and awareness, surrounded by voices and faces which never fully materialized, but never fully left him. He could hear his father talking to him,  _ screaming  _ to him, words teeming with pain and rage and a force Dimitri could not ignore but could not make out, only catching the occasional word in an attack of long sentences too loud for Dimitri’s overloaded brain to process in any way other than  _ fear _ . He could see Glenn jump in front of him to take a blow Dimitri never saw coming, watching as Glenn cut down his attacker only to fall a moment later, bloody and burnt and somehow too obscured for Dimitri to make out any details except for the fact that the crest of Fraldarius was flickering above a soon-to-be corpse, useless for defending its bearer. He could taste the smoke in the air as it enveloped his stepmother’s carriage, hear the crackle of flames coming from that direction, smell the disgusting scent of burning clothes and bodies coming from the direction he knew she’d been in. He couldn’t hear her words, not could he see her. But he knew she was there, and thus to accompany the smoke and fire that formed a barrier between them he imagined her screaming as the flames consumed her thick skirts and her thick shawl and her body, a third corpse to add to the ever growing pile around him.

(not that she would only be the third corpse. hers would’ve been a much higher number. There were bodies everywhere. tens, dozens, hundreds-)

The screaming couldn’t be his own, certainly. 

He hadn’t screamed at all that day.

After all, the moment the explosions signalling the attack had begun Dimitri had frozen like a pathetic weakling, a coward, his throat and mind closing up in the face of violence he’d never so much as imagined. He’d frozen even as Faerghan soldiers grabbed him by the arms and dragged him away from the broken carriage he’d ridden in with his father, toppled over when one of the horses pulling it had been pierced through the neck by a gleaming arrow, falling to the ground with an ear splitting cry that signalled the beginning of the end. He’d stayed frozen as another attack came for him, the spell lighting up the air in front of Dimitri but never reaching its target because one of the soldiers threw their bodies in front of Dimitri, the first of many human shields Dimitri had never asked for but received anyway, body after body falling in front of him as they tried and failed to move Dimitri to a safe location that had never really existed.

Eventually he was shoved to the floor when one of the bodies, instead of crumpling at his feet as the others had, fell on top of him. The blast that created that corpse had been strong, and the force caused Dimitri’s head to slam into the trampled dirt underneath him. The contact had been enough to throw stars across his vision. Bright flashes of white in a world of grey and red, dancing lights in front of swaying flames. Pain.

The blow was enough to rouse him from his immobile state. One shock to override another. With a few blinks Dimitri had shoved the body (was that jeanne? she wore a necklace like that, didn’t she?) off him and rose to unsteady feet, staring at the growing flames around him. Red and orange and gray. The only colors in the entire world, as far as he could see, despite the fire only having burned for a few minutes as far as Dimitri knew. Had he been so out of it that a significantly larger amount of time had passed without him realizing, or had the attackers really just been that destructive?

With all the flames and smoke, Dimitri could see no exit. He knew not where to go. And so he’d stumbled forth, desperate for some place to escape and catch his breath and cough out all the ashes of burning houses and burning friends, praying he’d find somewhere to hide or somewhere to help; praying for some magical path to safety where he could breathe and survive and fully process what was going on. None of it seemed real, after all. His head buzzed, and he’d internally begged for it all to be some sort of terrible nightmare that would disappear once his breath finally left him and he woke to a thriving, unburnt world.

But his prayers weren’t answered. He never found his magical spot of safety and sanctuary.

Instead, Dimitri found his father. His father, cape scorched and torn, face blackened, tunic reddened by the blood flowing from the wound that  _ still had a sword in it oh Goddess there was a sword pierced through his father’s stomach what was he supposed to do he didn’t have any healing magic- _

Yet still his father had fought, swinging Areadbhar in a clean arc to sever the arm of the cloaked figure who still held that terrible sword, driving its former owner away with a trembling shove. He then fell forward, thrusting Areadbhar into the ground to serve as a crutch, a pole he could hold onto to remain standing as he coughed into his hand and a dark substance that even from Dimitri knew to be blood as it dripped through his father’s gloved fingers, falling into the dirt to mingle with the blood of countless others.

And then.

Then Lambert turned and saw Dimitri. Their eyes met, and Lambert, sword still in gut, burns across his face and body, stood tall. Using Areadbhar as a crutch he’d straightened to his full height and looked at Dimitri with an expression Dimitri had never seen before.

Lambert then opened his mouth to speak, but the words never came. Instead a sick gurgling noise exited his mouth as another pale figure robed in black emerged from the flames to slash Lambert across the back of the knees, and so the proud father Dimiri loved with all his being fell to the ground, grunting in what Dimitri knew had to be his best attempt at holding back a scream.

Dimitri could not hear what the attacker said to his father after that. But he could see the spell the figure cast, enveloping Lambert in a dark miasma that, once it dissipated, appeared to cause no physical damage but left Lambert’s face contorted in the worst sort of pain imaginable. 

Dimitri knew neither the words not the spell that followed them. What he did know, what he would never forget so long as he lived, was what his father screamed to him over the roar of the flames and the crash of magic and the terrified shouts of all the innocent people caught up in the madness around them.

“Avenge us!” he cried, voice so full of pain and fury and hatred and desperation that, for the first time in his life, Dimitri felt utterly  _ terrified _ of his father. “Those who killed us...Tear them apart!” His voice cracked, breath leaving him as he forced out one final scream. “Destroy them all!”

Lambert was the one with the sword through the chest. But it was Dimitri who had felt his heart had been pierced when Lambert delivered his final message. The sound and image seared itself into Dimitri’s soul like a hot brand and it hurt terribly, in a way that Dimitri knew he couldn’t disobey. Not with a plea like that. Not with an order like that.

Not when the expression was cut off as his father’s attacker held up their sword once more, slashing toward his father’s neck and-

…

(...and what? what happened? 

and then.  _ and then _ -)

…

Dimitri felt like he was drowning. Heat surrounded him, but not like the flames had. This wasn’t a searing heat, it was an enveloping one, burning him up from the inside out, roasting his heart and his lungs and his inside before it trickled out toward his muscles and skin and the air where it stopped in some sort of blanket, coating him with a sticky sweat that only made him feel sicker. It was like he was being held down, a pressure on his arms and legs and side and no matter how hard he tried to kick away he couldn’t free himself; not for more than a few moments, at least.

The memories (nightmares) of that day were slowly drifting away from him, leaving Dimitri submerged in an unpleasant blackness surrounded by familiar and unfamiliar voices alike, the shrill and deep tones mixing with each other in a way that only made Dimitri’s already aching temples pound in a horrible, uneven rhythm. Just as with his first nightmares he couldn’t make out a single thing they were saying. Somewhere in the back of his mind he realized he was sick, that he was feverish, and that they might be there to help.

But the front of his mind told him he was trapped in a hellish prison, a dark prison full of things he could not see, because while he was no longer in Duscur he was still stuck in some sort of unpleasant void full of noise and pain and discomfort and  _ heat _ and all he wanted was for it all to go away.

He begged for relief, trapped in his mind and his illness. Over and over and over and over and he didn’t know if he was saying his prayers out loud or if they were all in his head and if out loud was even the real world or whatever hell or Flames or purgatory he was trapped in but oh Goddess his throat hurt was it from the smoke or the screaming or was this what it felt like to be claimed by the Eternal Flames he was so sorry he had failed his father and there was nothing he could do to make it up to him trapped like he was with seared hands and a useless throat and cuts all up and down his back and with a brain that wanted to burst its way out of his skull with a sledgehammer or a rock or whatever blunt object it could possibly find and it hurt and it hurt and-

And his father cupped his face.

Dimitri blinked up at him, the pain and heat that had enveloped his body slowly draining away.

He realized he was on the floor, sitting on his heels and wearing the same clothing he’d worn when that hellish day had begun, though at the moment it was in the state it had been in by the end of it, torn and burnt and bloody-

But he was out of the flames, on the floor of the black abyss, tears streaming down his face as his father kneeled in front of him and brought his hands up to Dimitri’s face, skin soft and warm.

“Dimitri, calm yourself.”

His father’s voice was soft and peaceful. Reassuring. Nothing like it had been when Dimitri had heard it last.

So he listened. He relaxed.

“Please rest,” his father insisted, eyebrows furrowed and concern clear on his face. “You need to heal. You can’t keep fighting like this.”

Dimitri blinked. Fighting? What was he fighting? And why did he need to stop?

Somehow his father knew exactly what he’d been thinking. 

Lambert closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he reopened them, the concerned expression he’d bore was replaced with one of complete emptiness.

“Because if you don’t stop-” he began, voice flat. It turned dark. “-you’ll never be able to accomplish your goal.”

His goal?

Lambert nodded, a smile gracing his face. “Yes. Your goal. You’re going to avenge me, are you not?” The hands gently cupping Dimitri’s face turned rough, their grip becoming harsh. Lambert’s faint smile curled upward, higher and higher until it had morphed into a sinister grin. “You’re going to make them pay, are you not? To let me rest?”

Lambert’s clothing, pristine at first, began to warp at the edges. The fur along his collar, swaying softly in the breeze that ran through the empty void they found themselves in, began to blacken at the edges. Small folds in his heavy coat turned into long tears, ripping along the seams as pieces fell to the ground underneath him. One by one cracks began to form in his armor, shards of metal bursting off as arrowheads and broken sword tips embedded themselves in the surface, trails of blood following soon after.

That- that wasn’t-

“Dimitri,” Lambert insisted, “you will, won’t you? You’ll kill them. You will make them suffer as I have. You promised me.”

Had...had he? His father had told him-

“You promised to avenge me. To destroy them. To kill them all, to ravage them until not a one was left.”

He’d...he had promised. His father had begged him to destroy their enemies.

But he hadn’t...his father would never ask him for slaughter, though. Right? Those weren’t his final words. What were his final words? Avenge him. Tear apart the enemy. Destroy them.

And that was all, wasn’t it?

As his mind raced Lambert’s grin grew sour, nails piercing Dimitri’s cheeks and drawing just the slightest bit of blood, though not enough to start tracks down his face. Dimitri looked him in the eye and began to believe that maybe, just maybe, he was wrong. He knew what his father’s last words were. He was sure of them. This was only a logical extension. Those were the words, this was what they meant.

And suddenly Lambert’s smile turned sweet again. His clothes pieced themselves back together.

He gave Dimitri a tight hug and a kiss on his forehead.

Then, he stood.

“Good. You know your duty. I expect you to carry it out to the best of your ability. Do not disappoint me.”

When Lambert faded away a moment later, Dimitri looked down to find his own clothes had not repaired themselves. Instead, they were bloodier than before. His father’s blood, transferred onto his own clothing. His father’s pleas and ambitions, transferred unto himself. 

Yes. He had a duty to fulfill. He needed to avenge his father. He needed to...to…

It was as Dimitri finally drifted off that he felt a brief moment of horror at where his own thoughts had drifted. But he was far gone by then.

He had a duty. But before he could fulfill it he needed to rest, and so the blackness finally claimed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're thinking, 'hey, where is everyone else?' the answer is...in future chapters! Which makes me think maybe I should've saved the tags till then, but I'll keep them in anyway. Should I tag Lambert as a character? He shows up a lot in this and future chapters, but given he's just a construct of Dimitri's mind and thus not really in character to his living counterpart, probably not.
> 
> This is more stream-of-consciousness and violent than most things I've written. It'll keep that claim for the most part, though some future panic attacks show some of that again. It's coming soon, possibly next Friday depending on how fast I get IRL things going.
> 
> Please consider leaving a review if you have the time! This fic covers some heavier topics than I normally go for, and a time period we don't really see in canon, so I'd love to know how you think I'm doing. Thank you for reading, and until next time.


	2. Awakening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is where other characters start coming in. Rodrigue, mostly. But this opens the way for more dialogue, and more exploration fo how Dimitri reacts to the people around him, rather than just the ghosts of his head. I tried to make Dimitri’s reactions here a mix of someone who’s recently dealt with trauma and is recovering, and also as sort of a preview of the sort of tendencies he has when he’s older/in game, jumping to conclusions about the negative.   
> Now without further ado, enjoy.

When Dimitri first came back into awareness, it was only for short periods of time. Seconds or minutes where he was able to concentrate on the outside world for fleeting moments, realizing he’d escaped the flames and the chaos to get somewhere safe but unable to stay awake long enough to really process the scene around him.

He saw Rodrigue at his side, sometimes, and though he couldn’t quite feel it he could see something resembling his own hand held between Rodrigue’s as the man’s lips moved in what Dimitri assumed were prayers. In other moments he watched as unfamiliar women in clerics’ garbs hurried around the room, making salves or preparing bandages or whatnot. Once he thought he saw his childhood doctor among them, but even then he wasn’t entirely sure. Whenever he “woke” he couldn’t speak. Only stare, eyelids so heavy and eyes so close to being closed no one seemed to notice they were open at all. For all he knew those sights could have come from more dreams; scenes his mind conjured to comfort him as he lay somewhere in a fiery village he couldn’t escape from. He’d finally figured out that the chaos in Duscur was no longer his present after a dozen increasingly mangled versions of the day had repeated before him. They were his dreams. His nightmares.

Trying to open his eyes and move was like trying to break the water’s surface while weighed down by a completely soaked winter coat. Nearly impossible and extremely tiring. 

He was ill and injured, so it wasn’t illogical. Despite the burning fever and the aches that plagued him, he could at least that much. But he’d made a promise to his father that he’d never be able to fulfill if he were to remain in bed for the rest of his life. Every day trapped in bed was a day wasted. And so he would do his best to wake, even if it was only for a few minutes at a time where he could do naught but stare at the drapes over his bed or the strangers at his bedside. He wouldn’t let himself slip any deeper. Not when he had a duty to fulfill. 

Slowly (slowly? it felt so quick in a way, going from dreams-  _ nightmares- _ dreams to being half-awake, to dreaming again, slipping back and forth over what he assumed were several days. it was hard to really assign lengths of time to anything, really, but in those rare moments where he had some clarity about him he tried to count the minutes or hours or days that had passed. or had it been weeks at that point? time was escaping him), those moments of awareness became more and more real. Less foggy. Less like he was watching from somewhere in the sea, trapped beneath ice as the world kept moving above him. 

His first big accomplishment came one day when Rodrigue was at his side, hands clasped around one of Dimitri’s own. Dimitri still couldn’t quite get his hand to move when he asked it to, but he did manage to make his fingers twitch somewhat, mouthing a few words once the movement prompted Rodrigue’s eyes to shoot to Dimitri’s face. The way the man shot out of his seat and started blabbering to Dimitri like he’d just relayed a message from the Goddess was shocking, to say the least. Even without having actually  _ said _ anything, the movement of his lips alone was enough to send Rodrigue nearly into hysterics, and while Dimitri felt a little bad about getting the man’s hopes up, he felt reassured he was improving as the world spun around him once more and he drifted back off to sleep, the last sight in front of him being a rush of clerics into the room, nearly shoving Rodrigue aside to kneel at Dimitri’s bedside.

The first time Dimitri was awake enough to move more than just his lips, it was on one of the rare occasions Rodrigue wasn’t present. The room was fairly dark, so it must’ve been nighttime. Rodrigue was likely sleeping, then. Good for him. He was nearly always there when Dimitri woke, and he worried the man would make himself ill if he didn’t spend at least a few hours in bed each night.

In Rodrigue’s place was a young woman with short chestnut curls, brown eyes squinting to read something on the small table next to her. Next to the text was a bowl of water with a cloth hung over its side, several vials and a flat container surrounding it. Burn cream, perhaps? Dimitri’s head was pounding, and when combined with the dim light it was hard to focus on the color inside the vial or any revealing information the small text might’ve contained.

As Dimitri tried harder and harder to focus through the pounding, his mind latched onto something other than burn cream. The room wasn’t completely dark, despite it being nighttime. But there were no candles on the table at the cleric’s side. Nor was the room silent, as most nights in the castle were when they didn’t have guests. Instead, a cracking filled the air. Crackling, and pops, and a small whoosh that had to belong to-

The cleric nearly fell off her chair as she shot back, knocking the thing over and scrambling to her feet before she started screaming something to the door, turning back around Dimitri and saying something he couldn’t make out, disappearing as the world went dark and back.

He couldn’t make it out. He couldn’t make anything out.

Because there was fire. 

The room was on fire.

Oh Goddess, the room was on fire  _ it was coming back to take him he couldn’t escape it even when he was awake his failures were coming back to consume him and every last thing he had left and the air was filled with that horrible crack of fire and piercing screams and where were they coming from where they coming from him he couldn’t tell but he knew there was fire and- _

And the room went dark.

Faintly, Dimitri realized he must’ve been thrashing about at a new, stronger pair of hands appeared to hold Dimitri down. He was shaking terribly but he couldn’t stop, only held back by the hands holding his arms in an iron grip with near-crushing force, preventing him from moving, keeping him from jerking away. He wanted to tell them to stop, but the smoke from the fire had made its way toward him and down his throat and he couldn’t breathe anymore. His throat had constricted on its own and the smoke was only making it worse.

But-

But...the pops had gone away. There were no more crackles. No more screams. It was quiet. And it was dark. The smoke was already dissipating. He’d escaped. He was safe. The fire was gone.

Dimitri shut his eyes as hard as he could, trying to hold back sobs. He didn’t know why he was crying, or why he was so scared. It all felt terrible. Like the world was closing in. All he could do was take deep breaths like the mystery figure above him asked him to do over and over, at a pace so steady he thought they were using some sort of metronome. He needed something to focus on. Anything. But it was hard. So, so hard. 

But he’d made a promise to his father, and the flames couldn’t consume him anymore. They were gone and it was dark and someone wanted to help him and he was breathing in-out in-out in-out and he fell asleep.

The second time Dimitri awoke and found he could move more than just his lips, it was night again. He didn’t know if it was the same night. What he did know was that the room was dark, the only lights entering the room being a sliver of silver moonlight through his curtains and a dull yellow glow spilling in the room from the hallway through his door. His door. It hit Dimitri that he was back in his room in Fhirdiad. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. His memories of ‘awareness’ since Duscur were blurry, and the only concrete thing he could really remember was Rodrigue and the chestnut-haired cleric. No other faces or sharp details. Maybe he’d only just been brought home. 

Home wasn’t the same as it had been. Or at least, his room wasn’t. There were a few new tables in the room, such as one next to his bedside that he definitely would have tripped on getting out of bed if it had been there before. On it were medical supplies, and by it were several chairs that didn’t belong there either. 

And in two of those chairs were a cleric and a knight. This cleric, while in nearly the same white robes as the last one Dimitri had seen, couldn’t have been the same woman. Her hair was much longer, for one thing. Probably a maroon or crimson color as well. But the main difference was her expression. She seemed on edge for some reason, whereas the last one had been concentrated on reading but overall calm. 

Perhaps it had something to do with the knight at her side. Despite all the time Dimitri spent watching his father or Glenn as they trained with the knights, Dimitri didn’t recognize the man. Nor did he understand why the knight was there. 

A cleric to heal him. A knight to...protect him?

His thoughts turned back to the last time he was awake. A cleric. Screams. Weak hands easily pushed away. Strong hands to keep him in place.

So, not to protect him, then. A knight strong enough to hold him down.

It stung a little. But that was fine by him. He was ashamed that whatever had happened had happened, but he understood. He didn’t remember the event, not fully. But he’d always been prone to breaking things; to accidentally activating his crest and shattering the new training lances he’d been given, to nearly hurting his friends while they played, to actually hurting more than one unfortunate knight who’d approached too quietly and given him a fright. Maybe there was a new cleric because the last one had been hurt. Maybe she looked so scared because she’d realized her friend had been injured by the person she was now assigned to look after. 

Dimitri didn’t want to hurt anyone. Especially not the ones trying to help him. If he needed a knight there to ensure that was the case...then so be it. So long as it prevented him from inadvertently hurting others.

Neither of them were looking at Dimitri at the moment, giving him some time to acclimate to the darkness and his surroundings, the details in the room coming into sharper focus after a few minutes. The knight leaned back in his seat, arms crossed and expression clearly revealing his boredom, while the cleric was hunched forward over some sort of shallow ceramic mortar, probably preparing a salce. Each clink of her pestel against the dish sent a spark through Dimitri’s temples, radiating through his skull in a sharp line. 

He winced as the clinks continued on, his hopes the cleric was almost done not being realized.

Would the pounding in his head ever go away? It wasn’t quite as bad as it had been the first few times he’d woken, or during his wanderings while in nightmares, but the clinks were aggravating the pain and he just wanted them to stop. Hadn’t she mashed whatever she was mashing enough? Whatever she was making was probably made to help Dimitri. He’d much take not having to hear the clinks and bear the associated pain over whatever minor relief the salve she was making would bring. Unless she was making something to cure headache instead of burns. That would be nice too.

Sitting and hoping would do him nothing though. So he licked his lips and swallowed the best he could in an attempt at wetting his throat enough to speak before asking a question.

“May I have some water?”

His voice sounded horrible when he finally heard it. Hoarse, quiet, cracking as though his voice were deepening for the first time. Unused.

It was followed by a crash of plate armor and the shattering of ceramic as the knight by his side shot to his feet and the cleric sitting next to him launched the mortar off the table in surprise, immediately swinging around to kneel at his side.

There went whatever burn cream or headache-cure or other salve she was working on. That was too bad.

“Your highness!” the cleric whispered, making a grating squeaking noise as she did. Dimitri flinched at the sound. She didn’t seem to notice, however, instead reaching under the covers to take his left hand in her own, trembling terribly. “You...you’re awake?”

He furrowed his brow. Awake? Of course he was. He’d just spoken, had he not? Not to mention the pounding in his head had increased to a point that far exceeded anything he’d felt in his dreams. Over and over and over to the point the world around him pulsed with it. It was getting hard to make out the details of her face.

But his throat was still dry and he didn’t think he had it in him to form a proper response. Instead, he repeated “water” in yet another ugly croak, this one leading to a coughing fit. If he had water he could speak. Then, he could ask for something for his head. Then, his throat wouldn’t still taste like ash and death.

The clerc turned to the knight and whispered something, prompting the knight to dash out of the room like his life depended on it. Did they seriously not have any water in the room? That seemed like a serious oversight. Not to mention inconvenient if the cleric was supposed to stay the whole night and had nothing to drink while doing so. Hopefully that would be remedied soon, because breathing tickled Dimitri’s throat in a way that made him feel he wasn’t too far off from another round of painful coughs.

Meanwhile, the cleric bombarded Dimitri with questions. How was he feeling, did he remember waking up at any time before, did his head hurt, how was his side, could he move his fingers, did he feel dizzy, could he see straight, was there any pressure in his chest, was his heart in any pain, and so on. His throat was too dry to answer any of the questions though. Any attempts at words brought a choking sound and nothing more. Instead, he wiggled his hand away from hers and shakily brought it to his throat, hoping the motion would help her realize why he was staying silent.

It was as he did so that he first realized his hands were bandaged. Cloth layered over cloth, wrapped up so thickly it was entirely possible his hands were completely deformed underneath without him even realizing.

Something deep within him told him to peel the pandaged away, to see whatever grotesque skin and blisters lied beneath. It was tempting.

He ignored the call though. Brought the hand to his neck as it shook so badly he dropped it a moment later, lacking the strength to keep it raised. It was frustrating. All he was trying to do was move a limb, but it was though he’d slept on it and it had gotten so full of pins and needles he couldn’t make it do what he asked anymore. It made him feel powerless.

The cleric quickly moved forward to shift his hand from where it had fallen on his chest back to his side. “Please, your highness, don’t strain yourself!” she shouted. Her eyes glittered. Was she crying? The pulsing in his head was blurring the world. “You’re still healing. You need to rest. Eric will be back in a moment with water and Lord Rodrigue. Please, rest.”

Dimitri croaked back at her. It was the closest he could get to saying “okay.”

He wished he could tell her to quiet down. The shouting was making his already impossibly harsh headache worse. Hopefully the water would help that go away too.

Regardless, his pathetic attempt at speech must’ve pleased the cleric. He watched as the corners of her lips turned up in a smile, the woman rising to grab a broom in the corner of his room that she then used to sweep away the shards of the broken ceramic by his bedside. He mentally issued another apology for that.

As she finished, Dimitri heard the sound of footsteps from down the hall. Or rather, running from down the hall that was getting louder and louder. Right before whoever the owner was reached his door, they slowed, the person dropping back into a walk. Did they not want to seem hurried as they crossed into the room? They did realize that Dimitri had heard them bolt down the hall, hadn’t they?

When Rodrigue finally entered the room, wearing his night clothes and hair sticking up in every which way. He must’ve been sleeping when the knight burst in to inform him of Dimitri’s waking, and by the looks of it he’d rushed over without a second thought about making him look presentable. Dimitri had heard it, even.

Rodrigue too was on the verge of crying. And when he and Dimitri locked eyes and Dimitri did his best to put up a small smile, those tears finally fell.

“Oh, Dimitri,” Rodrigue choked, bounding across the room to kneel at his side. “I am… I’m so grateful. After I heard Lambert had- and that you’d been injured- I’d thought-” He took a deep breath and grasped Dimitri’s hand once more, fighting back sobs. “I was so worried I’d lose you too. But you’re okay...you’re okay. I promise. I’ll keep you safe, I promise.”

Then, voice barely a whisper and head downturned as the sobs threatened to overtake him. “Oh Goddess, thank you for this gift, for preserving the life of our prince in the face of this tragedy. For allowing him to survive, to continue on...Thank you. Thank you.”

Dimitri wanted to reply, to tell Rodrigue that he was alright and that there was no need to be so broken up. But he also wanted water, or he’d never be able to get out the words at all. And so as Rodrigue kneeled over Dimitri’s bedside, tears dripping down onto the sheets, Dimitri looked to the cleric with a silent question. She seemed to get what he was asking and brought a glass of water to him a moment later. The knight must’ve fetched it while Dimitri wasn’t paying attention. Dimitri couldn’t free himself to grab it though. The cleric thus held it to his lips to let him drink instead. He felt pathetic.

But the act finally allowed him to speak, and thus it was worth it. “Rodrigue,” Dimitri breathed, voice barely audible at all as he tried not to aggravate his throat any more than it already was, “I’m okay. I am alive. I will not- I cannot die now. I will be fine, I promise.”

The short sentences were apparently too much for Dimitri as he broke out into coughs once more. But the light he saw in Rodrigue’s eyes made the words worth it. A short burst of pain in the back of his throat was nothing. 

The cleric brought the glass back to his lips. The water was welcomed, but he didn’t attempt to say anything more. Not until Rodrigue did. Frankly, Dimitri didn’t know what else to say. What else to do. He still ached all over his body, he still felt hot and sticky. His head still pounded in a harsh way, though not quite as badly as before. He was awake, but something felt off, like he was trying to swim through some thick, viscous substance while watching the world through glass. He was forgetting something.

So he would let Rodrigue lead the conversation and follow as was appropriate until he realized what that forgotten thing was. It was something important, surely. But what?

Thankfully, Rodrigue took the silence as his cue to speak once more. “I apologize for my rambling, your highness. But I’m just...so grateful you’re alive. You survived, Dimitri, and I couldn’t ask for anything more after what happened that day. Nothing could be more comforting, or more of a relief. Perhaps I’m being too emotional, but much has happened recently, and it’s a lot to take in.”

Dimitri’s eyebrows furrowed. “Nothing?” That had something to do with what he was forgetting. Something he should be upset about. Something Rodrigue should be upset about.

The glass was raised to his lips once more. Dimitri took a small sip, though he’d rather have no water at all if it could get the cleric to leave the room. It felt weird having an intimate conversation with Rodrigue while a stranger was in the room, even if she was employed by the castle.

Then it hit him. What he was forgetting.

“If nothing could make you happier, then...does that mean that Glenn’s alright? I know my father-” Dimitri cut himself off. His father was-

He couldn’t even think about it. Every time he got close, he just...couldn’t. It didn’t work. Like his mind refused to continue down that path and acknowledge that- 

He moved on. “Glenn threw himself in front of me. I saw him be cut down, and I thought-” He coughed once more, accepting the water offered him. “I thought he had died. But are you saying he’s alive? That the healers got to him in time?”

Something tugged in Dimitri’s chest. The idea that he wasn’t the only one, that one of his closest friends had survived, was priceless. Glenn was more than just a knight. He was like an older brother to Dimitri. A dear companion whose loss had crushed Dimitri. But if he was still alive, then...

Rodrigue’s smile faltered, and the optimism building in Dimitri’s chest immediately collapsed. “Ah, no, he- that is-,” Rodrigue swallowed hard. “My son has passed. But that’s unimportant in the grand scheme of things, so you needn’t worry yourself about it, your highness. What we should focus on in your survival and what that means for Faerghus. Glenn is,  _ was _ … He knew what he’d signed up for when he joined the knights. Your survival and wellbeing comes above all else.”

And so the world fell back down from the momentary glimmer of hope in the distance. 

“What…?” Dimitri whispered, lips pursed. Rodrigue couldn’t have been saying what Dimitri thought he was saying, right? If Glenn was truly gone, how could he say such things? How could he cast his own son aside in favor of Dimitri? Push away his memory to concentrate on someone who was no longer in any danger of dying?

Dimitri took a deep breath. He could feel himself trembling once more. “Glenn was your son. He’s...He is dead because of me. He th-” Another cough. Another press of a glass against his lips. “He threw himself in front of a blade he knew would spell his end to protect me. In front of the fl-” More coughing. More water. His voice shook with an emotion he couldn’t place, tears building in his eyes. Anger, confusion, frustration, sadness. It just felt like a lot. Like everything was coming down on him at once. “In front of countless spells for me.” His voice grew louder as he struggled to fight off sobs.. “Your son  _ died _ for me, and yet you could still only ask for my survival, for the survival of his killer, and not his own!? Does his life mean nothing to you compared to mine?!”

When the coughs broke out again following his outburst and the glass was once more brought to his lips, Dimitri finally called up the strength to wrench his hand away from Rodrigue and push the glass away from him, causing the cleric to lose her hold on it and the glass to fall to the floor, shattering.

She looked startled, eyes wide as she stared motionless at the shards on the floor. She looked to Rodrigue for help for a moment, but he said nothing. So she ran to retrieve the broom she set aside, cleaning up another piece of destruction Dimitri had left in his wake. He wasn’t doing anything right, was he? He couldn’t help anyone. Only hurt. 

Rodrigue, meanwhile, looked guilty. He took a few moments to choose his words, delivering them carefully. “Your highness, the Fraldarius family exists to protect the Blaiddyd line. Like the woman who first bore our name fought by the man who first bore yours during the War of Heroes, like Kyphon stood at Loog’s side during the fight for the independence and foundation of our kingdom, we stand to give our all for your kin. You are the future of our nation. You are the light of Faerghus. My son, though I loved him, could never be as strong a beacon as you are; a strong a leader as you are. He knew his role and whole-heartedly fulfilled it in giving his life to preserve yours. That is why we exist. That was the purpose of his life, and I could be no prouder of what he accomplished.”

“...”

The two held eye contact, Dimitri unblinking, Rodrigue with a pleading gaze.

“Get out.”

Rodrigue blinked. “Excuse me?”

Dimitri swallowed hard as he began to drift, mind falling back to the dirt and the flames and the bodies and the screams of that day. To the blood painting his hands, to the fire that licked up at the corpse at his feet, to the body that had been stabbed and burned and twisted, the body that had been screaming so loudly as it first urged Dimitri to run away until the pain had become to much and its orders to run became pleas to the Goddess for help that would never come, only falling silent when the body was completely enveloped by the flames. 

“Get out,” Dimitri repeated, voice completely even. Calm, almost. Blank.

“Your highness-”

The body had a face. Dimitri had seen it countless times during his dreams, obscured by smoke and dirt and blood that meant he was never able to fully make it out. But now it stared at him clear as day. 

A sharp nose, harsh lines under his eyes, prominent cheekbones, a mole underneath one. The healing cut on the jaw from a mishap play-sparring with Dimitri earlier that morning. The blue eyes turned gold as they reflected the flames all around them. Every feature was distinctly Glenn. The face, the blood, the eyes staring Dimitri down until they turned unseeing. Sucking him in. Keeping him from escaping. No, not with them there. They were holding him down, clinging to his skin. It was getting hard to breathe again, the terror clawing at his skin, the anger closing his throat until he could hardly inhale. 

“Dimitri-” Rodrigue continued with his pleas, having moved forward in an attempt to reclaim his hold on Dimitri’s hand. Was he really trying to comfort Dimitri? After spouting nonsense about how Dimitri should be  _ grateful _ Rodrigue’s own son had died? Did he understand nothing at all?!

“Get out!” Dimitri shouted, ignoring the grating feeling the volume caused in the back of his throat. He jerked backwards to avoid Rodrigue’s touch, breaths heavy as he tried to come back to the present and avoid the memories which attempted to drag him back to that horrid place. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see him as he suffered! As he screamed and cried and struggled to get away and survive only to die anyway as I, who stood there and did nothing, survived. You can’t say that. You can’t say things like that! You don’t know how it was, so you can’t possibly know what he was thinking at the time, or claim that he was happy. He was suffering. Dying! Don’t tell me such things! I don’t want to hear them!” Sobs wracked his body, voice cracking to the point he could barely get the words out. “Get away from me. Get out. Get out!”

The pounding in Dimitri’s head, the twinges from the clink of the mortar that had grown into dizzying throbs over the course of the conversation, finally drowned the rest of the world out. He curled in on himself, drawing on strength he hadn’t known he’d had to pull his knees to his chest and his face to his knees, throwing his damaged and bandaged hands to his head, gripping his head as if maybe, if he pushed hard enough, the pain would stop. Maybe the pressure from his fingertips would drown out the pain from inside his head. Maybe he’d crush his own skull in, drowning out the throbbing and everything else. Glenn’s eyes, blazing as they reflected the hellish scene around them would surely leave him alone if he did that. The hands reaching out of collapsed buildings reaching for his feet and ankles might even loosen their grips and free him.

Maybe.

Maybe.

The blood was rushing to Dimitri’s ears, eyes shut tight and blacking out all vision. The world was once more drowned out in favor of phantom crackles of fire and echoe of long-silent screams, body aches raging into full blown pain as his head pounded as though a grappler were attempting to cave his skull in . It hurt. He couldn’t think.

He felt something sharp dig into his arms, trying to pry his hands away from his head without success. Were they nails? Or were they the tips of gauntlets? Regardless, when they failed to move Dimitri’s arms they abandoned their task, moving on to prying his mouth open instead. Why he didn’t know, images still swirling in his mind as he struggled to keep them out. It was only when he felt the cool rush of a spell washing over him that he realized those around him had turned to magic to try to force him to relax. But even still he didn’t budge, too stiff and doubting he would even be capable of relaxing were he to try. Not with that pounding, not with the ache. The eyes.

Not until his grip began to relax without him wanting it to, at least. Not until the world started to swirl and the pounding turned into a dull, radiating pain, and he began to fall, no longer feeling like he was sitting in the real world. 

He was swept into the distance again, this time so far he wasn’t even looking through glass at the world anymore. He was back to the ice, held underwater as pressure sloshed around him, the figures in front of him blurred beyond recognition. There were certainly objects on the other side of the ice; he could approximate their size, identify their color. But their precise shape and identity were beyond him. He slumped back, only half-aware as increased pressure on his sides he faintly realized came from foreign hands shifted him in his bed, their owner saying something to someone behind them. 

All Dimitri could do was blink. Even then it was more like a constant fluttering of the eyelids he could slightly delay if he concentrated hard enough. Not asleep, but not really awake either. Like he wasn’t really in his body at all.

The speech continued, sounding more like noise with human tonality than actual words. Occasionally he caught one, clearer than the rest in the slurry of sounds that buzzed a constant hum in the air next to him. His name was one of the words he caught the most. They were talking about him. About what to do. They were worried he’d hurt himself. They didn’t know what to do about it or what to tell the others (who were the others? who was or were the mysterious ‘they’?). The conclusion they came to was to keep silent, to pretend the incident had never happened. Dimitri had only just woken up, and his fever still blazed. Surely his reaction had been an unfortunate extension of his illness, the fever driving him to act so out of character.

Was it out of character? It felt natural. Far more natural than the uncomfortable, immobile, floating-but-aware state he was caught in at the moment. 

He hated being so helpless. Again and again, forced to act as others wanted him to be, forced to be an invalid, stripped of the ability to decide for himself. He had things to do. He couldn’t just stay in bed. He couldn’t waste time sitting and listening to useless discussion. He had to get up, to move, to fulfill his father’s wishes…

This time when he fell asleep, it was Glenn who came to greet him. He didn’t bother to put on a glamour like Lambert had when he first appeared. Instead he arrived in the black void Dimitri’s dream-scape had become wearing his death garb, smelling of smoke and face twisted in a sickening not-grin. He didn’t try to play nice. No attempts at luring Dimitri in with sweet words before his image warped into something cruel and terrible.

Instead, Glenn began his torment immediately. Dimitri didn’t even have a chance to get a word in before Glenn went off, blaming Dimitri for his death, blaming him for his inaction. He shoved Dimitri to the ground, setting a foot on his chest as he told Dimitri how he’d desecrated Glenn’s memory, how Dimitri had stolen his own father from him, how he’d taken in Rodrigue’s attention without earning it. How Dimitri was doing absolutely nothing but relishing in the care he was given, ignoring the promises he’d made. Ignoring the cries of the dead who begged for the vengeance no one but Dimitri could bring.

Dimitri tried to tell Glenn he was wrong; that he didn’t like the care, that he would get up as soon as he was well and able. 

But Glenn wasn’t satisfied. Dimitri wasn’t moving fast enough. He needed to get up already, to pick up a sword or lance and find a new sparring partner and get back to fighting. Glenn could no longer enforce their training regimine, but that didn’t mean Dimitri had an excuse to stop. Not that Dimitri planned to, but Glenn didn’t seem to believe a word he said regardless of the topic. 

His attempts at reasoning with Glenn failed immediately. When he tried to explain he needed to rest so he didn’t aggravate his still-healing wounds to the point of causing severe damage that reduced his fighting ability permanently, Glenn shot back that Dimitri didn’t even know the extent of his wounds, and that he was probably just being over dramatic. The clerics were babying him, fussing over him because they were in a panic, not because he needed the care. Take his hands, for instance. They were probably just covered because the healers had some sort of issues with the cosmetics of it all, nobles having that innate need to pretty up that drove them into a frenzy at the idea of their sweet little prince not having the smoothest hands in all the kingdom.

Dimitri didn’t know how to respond to that. Glenn had made a pretty good point with that last one.

He also made a good point with his next words. They were the kindest thing to leave Glenn’s mouth that entire meeting.

“Look, I know you may be frustrated, but don’t make an enemy out of my father. You have practically no one left now. If you’re going to have any sort of voice in politics these next few months, especially if you want to get out from under your poor excuse for an uncle, you’re going to need friends in power. My father will get you there. He loves you. He’ll do whatever you ask him to.” Glenn scoffed. “He’s always been hungry for praise like that, always looking to Lambert like he was the Goddess incarnate. Ignoring me and Felix for a friend who never revered him in the same way. You tell him you want to be friends again and he’ll forget everything you said in an instant. He needs a Blaiddyd to cling to. Lambert is gone. Rufus is a fake. You’re all he has left.”

His voice grew sweet, twisted grin turning to a smile. Just as Lambert had done. “Use that power as you will. Which I hope will be to get revenge, for all of us. You promised, after all.”

His eyes were gleaming. Blue turned gold, bright flames reflecting in their depths, the only source of light in their place in the void. 

So Dimitri simply nodded, waiting until Glenn faded and the light went out, blackness coming for him once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of logic notes: First, Dimitri hurting people isn’t supposed to be a “traumatized people are dangerous!” thing so much as “a person with super strength and a history of accidentally using it in destructive ways can be dangerous when not paying attention" thing, which is then worsened by trauma. Next, if you think I mention headaches a lot...Dimitri has them in canon and even if they’re not mentioned often, the way they're described makes them seem severe and frequent. So as someone who gets headaches nearly every other day, some worse than others, I decided I was going to roll with it! Finally, the 
> 
> Finally, the spell scene. The logic behind it (in terms of the story characters) is they think “oh no he’s going to hurt himself and we can’t let him die now, so we have to do whatever it takes to keep him from doing that," because Dimitri is the last member of the royal family and with his past feats of strength they’re worried he might actually break a bone if he puts too much force into something. They're too scared to try other things, despite those other things possibly being better. But it's the beginning of some distrust Dimitri will have for some of the castle crew, as to be explored in later chapters...
> 
> Anyway, thank you for reading another chapter! As with the last one, all kudos and reviews are appreciated, as I'd love to know what you all think of my characterization and so on. Dimitri's starting on a path of growth, so he's still pretty heavily caught within himself, but over time things will change as he begins to heal somewhat, growing more toward his Monastery-self. Still, I'm curious as to how you think I'm doing, so any and all comments are appreciated. Thank you for reading, and until next time.


	3. Companion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not totally happy with this chapter. It's the first Dedue chapter, and I had a lot of trouble writing him so he'd be...well, check the endnotes for that. I don't want to spoil the chapter. The base of it is that it's always challenging to try to write a character before they've appeared in the source material in a way that allows them to grow while keeping them recognizable. It's as good as I can get it after a week of rethinking, though, so I figured it was best to post and see what input I got. This is far from a rough draft, after all. Now without further ado, enjoy.

Waking up was a surprisingly peaceful affair. Despite the violence of his dream, for the first time since Duscur Dimitri woke feeling relatively well-rested. The tell-tale pressure of a headache behind his eyes remained, but the throbbing had stopped. His throat was still sore, but breathing wasn’t as terrible a chore as it had been. He wondered if it really was only the next morning, or if some longer period of time had passed. Sleep spells were uncommon, and he had no idea whether he’d been hit with just the one (was that even a sleep spell? he hadn’t fallen asleep so much as fallen away from himself, not really there but not really gone either. then again, he had no idea how they worked either), or whether someone had recast it sometime during the night.

He wished people would tell him things. Who had lived, who had died. Where his uncle was. When they thought he’d be able to get out of bed. What would be done in response to his father’s death. Anything at all was welcome. 

It was Rodrigue who delivered that first piece of information.

He’d entered the room only a few minutes after Dimitri had woken, one of the two clerics in the room having run off to call him. The man was a bishop, while the woman was a monk. New again, then. He hoped that meant the woman from the night before had taken the day off to sleep, and not that she’d been released or had some other thing done to be kept quiet. The first woman was still on his mind. Had there been a crack when he pushed her away? The sound of a broken bone? Or had she just stumbled back and away from him, the only injury a bruise from the tumble? 

Rodrigue kept him from thinking too hard on it. He began with easy questions; the ‘how are you feeling’ and ‘I hope you slept well’ sort of things that didn’t mean anything at all.

When Dimitri moved the conversation topic to the night before, Glenn was proven right. Rodrigue forgave Dimitri instantly once he apologized for his behavior, blaming illness and the suddenness of everything for his outburst. Flames, he didn’t even finish apologizing before Rodrigue interrupted him with a sigh and strong emphasis of his complete forgiveness. He’d thought up a whole three or four minutes’ worth of explanations to give, but Rodrigue didn’t seem to need to listen to any more than fifteen seconds before he passed judgment on the situation and decided all was well. That what Dimitri had to say was well and true.

On one hand, Dimitri was honored Rodrigue would so readily believe him and happy to know he still had at least one person on his side. On the other hand, that voice in the back of his mind that sounded so much like Glenn, an echo humming at the base of his skull of their conversation the previous night, made him feel a bit uneasy at the immediate acceptance. But he was not going to _use_ Rodrigue like Glenn had suggested. Rodrigue was his own person. An adult. Not some _thing_ to be taken advantage of. When it came to a man so sure of himself as Rodrigue, Dimitri doubted it was even possible.

(‘but is he so sure, when it comes to you?’ said the glenn-voice once more, grating in the back of dimitri’s skull. ‘fifteen seconds for forgiveness, even after you injured your allies. how far do you think you could go and still have him cling to your side without question?’)

It was only when Dimitri saw the corners of Rodrigue’s eyes crinkle and smile fall that he realized he’d been silent too long. Caught in his own thoughts, holding conversations with those not there, ignoring what was right in front of him. 

He cleared his throat, moving on to something, or someone, that had been itching in the back of his mind since he woke up that morning.

The one person Dimitri saw that day that did not die.

The Duscur boy, the one Dimitri had barreled into when he ran into the boy’s house in a frenzy while trying to escape the flames after Glenn’s death finally snapped him out of his stupor. The one who had protected him when Dimitri rushed in from amidst the chaos, frantically trying to find somewhere, anywhere to hide from the strange robed figures that had murdered his father and knights and friend and were chasing him down.

Dimitri didn’t know his name. But what he did know was that when Dimitri had run in, trailed by death and unthinking, the boy had picked up a large hammer and swung it at the figure who’d chased him inside, downing them and saving Dimitri’s life. Without a word. Without a question. And so when Faerghan reinforcements burst into the house and took aim at the boy, Dimitri had thrown himself in front of the boy to pay back the effort. Even in the rush of things, he'd known that if he had to sit back and watch a single other person die that day there would be no point in living. That he simply couldn’t keep on living as he was, not with his mind intact. Not without guilt eating away at his soul until there was nothing left.

So he was desperate to know if his actions had not been in vain. If the boy had survived.

The desperation must have seeped into his voice, because Rodrigue’s response was rapid. “Yes, yes, of course! He’s...being kept in the dungeons for questioning at the moment, but he’s alive, I assure you.”

Dungeons? Why? He'd done nothing wrong. “Could you please ask for him to be brought here? I would like to see how he is doing. With my own eyes.”

Rodrigue nodded, turning to the knight who guarded Dimitri’s door. The two of them were never allowed to be alone.

The knight nodded back and began to leave, but Dimitri added one more request before the woman could move out of earshot. “And please remove anything that marks him as a prisoner. He saved my life. He should be in an actual room, not a dungeon. There's no need to keep him down there.”

No one had a pleasant stay in the dungeons. Dimitri had never actually entered them, but...he’d seen men and women brought up for trial after staying there, and they were never in great condition. They weren’t dying but...Dimitri didn’t want to see the boy like that. He hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t deserve it.

The knight looked to Rodrigue for approval, receiving it a moment later. She seemed hesitant though, making Dimitri frown.

The boy had saved his life. He was no villain; he was a savior. A hero. He would not be treated as a criminal if Dimitri had any say in the matter.

(after all, what would it do to him if the only person he’d saved that day had been doomed to a life of misery? if he hadn’t really saved a life so much as prolonged its suffering? if that were the case, if the boy was to be-

-

his mind wasn’t going there. it couldn’t. he had seen enough, and he didn’t think thinking up all the possible things that could had gone wrong would help anything. the boy was okay. and if he wasn’t...dimitri would make sure he would be soon. he had to. he had to help _,_ to _save_ , at least one person. because the alternative wasn’t an option. the alternative-)

Dimitri shook himself out of his thoughts with a deep breath, caught in the middle of his exhale when the boy finally entered. He was briefly terrified the boy might think Dimitri was sighing at him, which was absolutely not his intention. He mentally flicked himself for being so careless.

Thankfully the boy, or teen really, didn’t appear to be injured. But he still wore what Dimitri was fairly certain were the same clothes he’d worn the day of the tragedy. (or rather, the Tragedy, with a capital T. that was what rodrigue and the clerics and the knights called it, when they thought he wasn’t listening. the Tragedy of duscur. they still would not tell him the details). He looked exhausted, bags under his eyes and shoulders slumped. Dimitri sent the monk to get the him something to eat, not trusting the dungeons to have done anything for him, asking her partner to check to make sure the teen didn’t have any hidden injuries. Both clerics first looked to Rodrigue for confirmation, just as the knight had.

(dimitri really didn’t have any power at all, did he? he was just an injured child in a seat of imaginary authority. nothing real, nothing actually influential.)

When the bishop approached the teen, he flinched. It took Dimitri a moment to realize why, and once he did he mentally flicked himself again. The teen had been in the dungeons. There was no way any Faerghans had done anything good for him recently, and there Dimitri was, trying to force something onto the teen yet again.

“That, is, if you are alright with being examined?” Dimitri tacked onto his request at the last minute, trying to smile in a hopefully friendly way. It felt lopsided.

The teen said nothing. 

The bishop pulled away before making contact, looking to Dimitri with furrowed brows and a silent questioning. 

Dimitri bit his lip, trying to figure out what to do. If he asked, Rodrigue could probably come up with something. But he wanted to figure it out on his own. He’d been so useless lately when it came to everything else.

After about thirty seconds of awkward silence, Dimitri realized the teen’s eyes kept flicking back to the door where the knights stood. The one Dimitri had sent to collect the teen had come back with a second one, this one armed. 

He cleared his throat, doing his best to sound commanding. To sound like a prince, not an injured child. “Could you two please wait outside?”

They looked at each other. A failure, then. He should have just told them to wait outside, not requested it. He was too soft. Too worried about being polite and proper to issue a simple order. 

And when there was a question rather than an order, there was room for a response. “Are you sure, your highness?” the dungeon guard asked. “After what his people have done, he can’t be trusted. What if he-”

“His people did nothing wrong." Dimitri snapped. "They were at the wrong place at the wrong time and caught up in an attack they never should have been involved in. Even if they had had some part in it, he himself has done me no harm. You cannot judge him based on the crimes others have committed, crimes which 'his people' did not even commit if you’re speaking of what I believe you are. So, leave, please. There's no need to be so cautious.” More of a command this time. The automatic ‘please’ of politeness had been too deeply ingrained in him to shove off immediately, but at least he had issued an actual request.

This time, instead of looking conflicted, the knight looked confused. As did his companion. As did the bishop, the newly returned monk, and Rodrigue.

Had Dimitri said something wrong?

Rodrigue rose from his place kneeling at Dimitri’s bedside and addressed the knights. “You heard your orders. Fulfill them. I will remain here in case anything goes wrong.”

The two knights bowed, turning in unison to move out the door. Not a moment’s hesitation. 

The monk entered right as the knights exited. She hesitantly placed a small bowl of stew on one of the tables before backing away to stand next to the bishop on the other side of the room, saying nothing.

With that, Dimitri did his best to ignore the clerics as he attempted to start a conversation with the one who’d saved his life. The clerics had propped Dimitri up on some pillows earlier so he would sit straight, but he was under orders not to twist or otherwise move his upper body, meaning he had to turn his head to an uncomfortable angle to talk to his new companion standing a few feet away. It made the pulsing of his headache shift to one temple.

He began with a simple question. “What is your name?” It felt awkward just referring to him as ‘the teen’ or ‘the person from Duscur’ or anything else like that. Impolite. “I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd.”

The teen’s face was flat, tinged with worry. He remained silent for a long while, simply staring forward until he gave his response. “Dedue Molinaro.” 

Dimitri waited a moment for Dedue to continue, but he said no more. So Dimitri asked another question, hoping to get something more. “How old are you? I am thirteen.”

“Fourteen.”

And once again, the short response was all. Dimitri should’ve expected that. Straightforward questions get straightforward answers, after all.

But what an answer it was. With his height and muscle, Dimitri has assumed he was older. But it was nice knowing Dedue was closer to his age than he’d guessed. Maybe that would be something they could bond over. 

Dimitri must have voiced at least some of his thoughts, because a short time later Dedue added, “I am closer to fifteen than fourteen, if that pleases you.”

“Ah, really? Then when is your birthday, if you don’t mind me asking? Mine falls in the Ethereal Moon, so it will be quite a while before it comes to pass,” Dimitri said with a smile. 

Dedue’s frown grew and Dimitri’s smile faltered. He must’ve said something wrong again. “Next week. The 31st of the Verdant Rain Moon.”

“Ah,” Dimitri responded, trying to think of how to follow up. “What do you typically do for your birthday? I know things may be tense in Duscur at the moment so it may be difficult to get home. But if you tell me what you enjoy, then I can try to recreate some of the events here, if that would please you.”

This time Dedue just looked offended. A moment later the flat expression from before came back. Dedue's voice dropped with it, melancholy audible. “My family would host a feast. The entire village would join in.”

“I-I see.” A sense of unease grew in the pit of Dimitri’s stomach. “How are they faring? Have any of them been brought to the castle alongside you?”

Dimitri's hands began to tremble. Dedue wasn’t sharing any of the optimism Dimitri was. Instead, with every word Dimitri uttered, he seemed to feel worse. Even Rodrigue, momentarily forgotten at the foot of Dimitri’s bed, was looking uncomfortable. Something was wrong. He was scared of what the answer to his question would be.

And his fears were affirmed. 

Dedue’s eyes narrowed. Just the slightest tightening of his eyebrows on an otherwise flat expression, but with the cutting tone his voice took, the feelings behind it were clear. “They are dead. Left in Duscur, burnt to ashes alongside our houses and our fields. None of them survived.”

None? _None_? Had they not been able to escape the fire? Or had the soldiers that Dimitri saw run into the house to attack Dedue…

Desperation crept into Dimitri’s questions, voice threatening to crack. “Do you have any other relatives? A cousin or an aunt or anyone else that lived in another village we could call upon?” 

“What other village?” Dedue met Dimitri’s eyes again, bitter and confused. “Your kingdom ordered the slaughter of all of Duscur. There are no other villages. The Duscur people are gone. Wiped from Fòdlan. As far as I know, I am all that remains. Who could there be to call?”

This time, Dimitri’s voice did break. “What…?”

Dimitri hadn’t heard of a slaughter. A massacre. Genocide. What was Dedue talking about? He knew the knights had attacked the village, had seen them turn on the innocents there, but _all of Duscur_? Even the villagers had not deserved it, so why was the entire region under attack?

He turned to Rodrigue, trying to control the unease threatening to boil over into something much, much worse. His voice came out as a whisper. “Is what he says true?”

Rodrigue swallowed hard. His words were quiet. “I fear it is. Duscur hasn’t been entirely….eliminated yet, but soldiers are still being sent to the region. At their current pace, it won’t be long before…” He shook his head. “I’m sorry, your highness. We didn’t want to burden you with any more information after everything you've been through.”

“But why?” 

“Why else?” Dimitri’s gaze shot to the door, where one of the knights had poked their head back in. The dungeon knight. “To avenge His Majesty, the young lord Fraldarius, and everyone else who died there. Criminals need to pay for their crimes, and there’s no higher crime than killing the king.”

Dimitri’s nails dug into the bandages over his palms. He felt something within him crack.

Avenge?

 _Avenge_?

What did this knight, this palace guard who had been nowhere near the scene of the murders that day, know of vengeance? He had not been there. He didn’t hear the cries. The pleas. The screams. He knew nothing of what he spoke. Not of the chaos, not of the suffering, not of the true criminals and the innocent victims who he blamed for their crimes.

Why would vengeance be sought against the Duscur people? They were innocent. The figures who had attacked Dimitri and his family were pale, wearing long robes and cloaked in darkness using spells Dimitri had never seen. Duscur fighters were known for their physical prowess and lack of magic users. They’d developed an impressive catalog of healing herbs and concoctions because of it. His attackers were no men of Duscur. Killing them was not avenging his father. It was meaningless, misguided slaughter.

Dimitri took a deep breath to calm himself. Yelling at the knight wouldn't improve anyone's opinion of him. “Who gave the orders?” 

The knight blinked. “Pardon?”

“Who ordered this massacre?”

The knight coughed. “I wouldn’t call it a massacre, your highness, the Duscur people attacked first-” Dimitri glared at the knight, who switched course. “-but, your uncle ordered it. To avenge his brother, his fellow nobles, and before we knew you were going to survive, his nephew as well. It was for a good cause, really.”

Dimitri bit back a scoff. 

A good cause. That’s what they were calling it. A good cause. What sort of deluded-

“That’s enough,” Rodrigue burst in, stepping between Dimitri and the knight, blocking his view. “Raul, you may return to your post in the dungeons.”

The knight’s eyes widened. “Lord Fraldarius-”

“Raul.”

The guard shut up. Then, he bowed and walked away.

Once the footsteps disappeared down the hall, Rodrigue moved to kneel at Dimitri's side. He picked up Dimitri’s hands without a word, uncurling the fists he'd forced them into without realizing. The bandages underneath were bloodied, his hands having been clenched so tightly the nails had pierced through the cloth and into skin. Rodrigue cast a quick heal spell over them to undo the damage Dimitri had done.

Rodrigue let out a sigh when he was done. “Your highness, I-”

Dimitri interrupted him. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why has my uncle commanded this...this...atrocity?” It made no sense. Slaughter? In Dimitri’s name, without his knowledge? Why would he possibly support that?!

Rodrigue bit his lip. “You heard Raul's words. While not exactly phrased as I would’ve liked, they weren't untrue. Your father and stepmother and the palace guard-” (no mention of glenn?) “-were all killed that day in Duscur. For well over a week, we feared we might lose you as well. Your uncle couldn’t let such an act of aggression go unpunished. What he has ordered is...well beyond excessive, but you have to at least understand the reasoning behind it, even if you don’t approve.” 

“But they didn’t even do it!” Dimitri shot back. “Duscur didn’t...they weren’t the ones fighting. They were just _there_!”

“Dimitri, I understand you’re upset. But your father, the _king,_ was murdered. Who knows how many conspirators might have laid in wait in that village? It's for the good of Faerghus.”

Dimitri scoffed. “Even if there had been conspirators in that village, the entire people of Duscur did not murder my father. The entire country did not come for us with axes and swords and spells. Our attackers were small in number, and they weren’t even from Duscur! They just chose it as their place of attack. So why do the Duscur people have to pay the price for an action outsiders committed on their soil?”

“Outsiders?” Rodrigue furrowed his brow. “Dimitri, what are you saying?”

“I'm saying Duscur was not responsible for my father's murder. The Faerghan delegation was not harmed by anyone from Duscur, so I don't understand why they have to pay the price for the attack. Even if Uncle were upset at Duscur for allowing such an attack to happen within their borders, that doesn’t mean that they deserve-”

“Your highness,” Rodrigue cut in, making Dimitri pause. When he did, Rodrigue looked over to the two clerics, still in the room. “You two are relieved of your duties for the moment. Please return to the infirmary. I will send for you when you are next needed.”

The two bowed and left. Dimitri, Rodrigue, and Dedue were the only ones who remained in the room.

Was Rodrigue trying to get rid of anyone who might overhear what they were saying? Dimitri was only saying the truth of what he saw. Why keep that private?

“Dimitri. Are you absolutely sure the attack wasn’t instigated by Duscur?” 

“I am. I was there, Rodrigue. I know what I saw. The people of Duscur were not responsible. They were not the ones who attacked us.”

“Then who did?”

“I..." He didn't know. He hadn't recognized the garb of their attackers, nor had he noticed any symbols that might have revealed their alliegence. "I am not sure. But they wore long robes and specialized in reason magic. Dark magic, especially.” Memories of that day began to surface in the back of Dimitri’s mind, phantom images and distant cries that made his heart race like he was still there. The scent of smoke, the taste of ash. Swirling black glyphs darkening the air in front of him, cutting off his escape.

Dimitri swallowed hard, trying to collect himself, to keep from being drawn back to that dark place. He couldn’t get caught again. “Some had swords or other bladed weapons, but their primary form of attack was with magic. Spell after spell after spell, burning and bursting and-” A shuddered breath. “And whenever an arm or a face or any other part of their skin became visible, I could tell they were pale. Duscur fighters don’t use magic. Not like that. And combined with the skin tone… They could not possibly have been from Duscur. There’s no way.”

Rodrigue brought a hand to his chin, rubbing the edge of his beard. Then he dropped it and looked Dimitri straight in the eye. “Your highness, I believe you when you say you did not see any Duscur fighters, but...there were several bodies of Duscur soldiers found alongside Faerghan soldiers that day. Armed and prepared to fight. Even if there were others, perhaps they were just outside reinforcements.”

“What are you talking about? I don’t mean that the majority of the fighters were the robed figures, I mean all of them were. I did not see any Duscur soldiers at all-”

“Perhaps not, your highness, but you were dehydrated and injured. You had a head wound. Perhaps you simply missed them in the chaos, and misidentified soldiers as regular citizens-”

“Did anyone see them fighting?” Dimitri’s voice grew frantic. He wasn’t making things up. He knew what he’d seen. Why wouldn’t Rodrigue believe him? Would no one listen to him anymore? “Was there anyone who saw Duscur soldiers fighting in anything other than self-defense? A single person who saw one of those corpses, back when they still lived and breathed, fighting the soldiers of Faerghus? Or did you come to the conclusion once they were already dead?”

Rodrigue opened his mouth only to close it a moment later. Then: “...No, we have no witnesses. You’re the only survivor out of everyone who was there when the fighting began. The only other people who were in Duscur that day were the reinforcements who arrived after word of the attack crossed the Duscur border. By the time they did, the village had already burnt, and all the original soldiers were dead or unconscious. None ever woke...”

“And the reinforcements? Did they fight any Duscur soldiers?”

“No. They were all dead by the time the reinforcements arrived. A few villagers were all that remained, but after what happened…” Rodrigue glanced to Dedue. “I’m sorry.” 

“Then do you believe me?” Dimitri asked, hopeful. Rodrigue seemed to be connecting the dots. The situation didn’t add up when the mystery attackers were removed.

“I believe that you are telling me the truth as you know it,” Rodrigue responded carefully. “But are you suggesting that someone planted those corpses? That someone framed the people of Duscur?”

Dimitri considered it a moment. He supposed he was. He still wasn’t entirely sure what to think, because not ten minutes before he hadn’t even known the attack had continued after he fell unconscious. Until the conversation had begun, he never would have imagined anything on the scale of what was occurring in Duscur to be possible.

So he let Rodrigue know. 

“Yes. It doesn’t make any sense. Father was going to treaty with Duscur. Relations have been improving over the past several years. What would Duscur get out of murdering Father that they could not get out of allying with him? Out of forming proper trade relations and diplomatic ties?”

Dimitri could feel Dedue’s eyes on him. But he was scared to look back. His people hadn’t just held Dedue in the dungeons or destroyed his town. They’d massacred his people. Were currently massacring his people, if Dimitri understood correctly. He didn’t think he could face Dedue at the moment. Not until he found some way to help, and getting to Rodrigue was the best way to do that. No one seemed to be listening to Dimitri at the moment, but they’d listen to Rodrigue. He was the outlet Dimitri needed to be heard.

Rodrigue rose, taking a deep breath. 

“Don’t tell anyone else your thoughts on this situation or what you saw,” he warned. “When someone asks you who was responsible for the Tragedy, you can say that you don’t think all of Duscur should have been blamed. That it was only a small group with strong feelings behind the attack, and not the fault of the entire people. But until this issue has been resolved...please keep your thoughts between the three of us.”

“Why only between us? If the public does not know the attack wasn’t the fault of Duscur, they might begin to hate them in a way that cannot be undone.”

“I know. But I want to investigate this matter before you start to talk. If someone really did frame the people of Duscur...if they are not at fault, that means the true culprits are still out there. Your highness, I don’t doubt your survival was unintended. If you start bringing such questions to the public, I fear more attempts on your life will come and that I won’t be there to stop them. So please, let me be your shield as I was for your father. We can’t afford to lose you, Dimitri. Not after the losses we’ve already incurred. If you die, so will Faerghus. We need to keep you safe above all else. I will look into this incident and bring you my results. But for now,” he glanced at Dedue, “I will let you two speak. I’ll return as soon as I’ve spoken to your uncle.”

Rodrigue gave a short bow, motioning to leave.

“Wait!” Dimitri shouted, wincing slightly as the outburst pulled a half-healed wound on his chest painfully.

Rodrigue paused. “Yes?”

“When you talk to my uncle, please ask him to reverse his orders.”

Rodrigue raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

“You said soldiers were still being sent to Duscur. Tell my uncle that I want him to reverse his orders. That I want him to order all soldiers still in the field to return to their normal posts, and to stop this senseless slaughter. Duscur has already lost. There would be no point in continuing to fight them, even if they had had any involvement. Please.”

Rodrigue bowed once more. “As you wish.” He took a step toward the door, then added, "And Dimitri, please know that I will always be here for you. Whatever you need, don't hesitate to ask me. I'm not Lambert, and I know I will never be, but I will do whatever I can to help you and make sure you're taken care of. I swear."

Then he left, heading off to find Rufus.

“See,” Glenn said, standing in the doorway his father had just exited through. “I told you he would do whatever you asked. He’s easy to use that way.”

Dimitri faltered. “I know. But...I was not using him, I was placing a request. I didn’t _order_ him to do anything. He acted because he wanted to!”

Glenn chuckled. “Whatever makes you happy. As long as it helps us achieve our goal, I suppose it’s the same in the end.”

“But it’s-”

The sound of a throat being cleared drew Dimitri’s attention.

“Excuse me,” Dedue began, uneasy, “Who are you talking to?”

Dimitri’s eyes widened. He shot back to the door. It was empty. Of course it was empty, Glenn was dead; he couldn’t possibly have stood there just moments ago. But he had seemed so real. He was no translucent figure, no flickering phantom. He seemed entirely human. And yet...yet he couldn’t have been. Dimitri’s mind was playing tricks on him. He would not fall for it again.

“Ah, no one,” Dimitri replied, plastering a smile upon his face. “Just a little something I meant to think to myself over a former worry. No need to concern yourself with it.”

Dedue nodded, though with narrowed eyes that indicated he wasn’t brushing off the situation as much as Dimitri would’ve liked.

It was then that the remaining knight re-entered the room. She remained at the door while Dedue and Dimitri stared at each other, neither speaking for well over a minute.

Dimitri broke the silence with an awkward offer and a change of topic. “Would you like some of the stew? It has probably gone cold by now, which I apologize for, but it should still taste good.”

Silence. 

“O-or if you do not like cold stew, then I can have someone take it back to the kitchens and warm it for you!”

Dedue frowned.

Dimitri could feel sweat beading at his forehead.

The frown intensified. “...Did you truly not know?”

Dimitri blinked. “Excuse me?”

“What happened to Duscur. Did you not know?”

“That’s…” Dimitri looked down at his hands, at the blooded bandages hiding his skin from the world. “No. At least, not totally. I knew- I knew in the back of my mind that the soldiers must have been attacking civilians when they aimed their swords at you, but I never…”

More images of the day came up. Burning buildings. Scorched wood. Bodies, light and dark alike, strewn across the ground in front of him. Soldiers, swords held high, bursting into a small house and rushing forward once they’d seen Dedue inside.

Dimitri’s throat went dry as the gravity of the situation began to sink in once more. It wasn’t just his father that had died. It wasn’t just Glenn and his stepmother and the guards he’d grown up around. It was dozens of innocents. Hundreds. Thousands.

“You need not pretend for my sake,” Dedue whispered. “What happened was unspeakably terrible. I would give anything in the world to undo it. But you do not need to pretend to be upset to make me feel better. I do not want your pity.”

Dimitri’s eyebrows furrowed. “Pretending? Pity? I would never! That day...that day I watched the most important people in my life be murdered alongside dozens of innocent people I did not know but could see suffer far more than they could possibly have earned. I saw the people that killed them that day. They were not of Duscur. They could not have been. Yet your people have been blamed for that day? They are being slaughtered by my knights for something they did not do, all in the name of avenging me and my family? It’s absolute madness.” He inhaled deeply. “And it’s my fault. While I lie here, lazy in bed, Faerghan soldiers have been committing atrocities. For me. What kind of person am I to allow that? What kind of person am I to give the impression that I could possibly _want_ that?”

Would that be his legacy? Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, motivation for the Duscur Genocide? He never wanted anyone to die. And for so many, for a false reason? The thought was sickening. The unease in his stomach just grew more and more, to the point it was turning in on itself, cramping painfully.

Dedue, meanwhile, looked off-put. “You…why? Why do you care? You are not from Duscur. You experienced your own loss that day in the form of your father. Why care about the people who were there when it happened?”

“Because it shouldn’t have happened. Duscur is a part of Faerghus, even if it holds much more independence than other regions under our rule. Even if it wasn’t, its inhabitants are still people. No one deserves to be punished for something they did not do. Not without reason, and there was none here. And...thinking about my father hurts. It really, really hurts.” Tears built in Dimitri’s eyes, threatening to spill over. “Losing him and everyone else...I can’t even express it. But even having lost him, I still have Rodrigue. I still have my friends in other parts of Faerghus. But you and everyone else still in Duscur don’t have that. And it came to pass because the guard wanted to protect me. To get revenge for me.” A deep breath. “I have caused this pain. It’s my fault, and I cannot apologize enough. I am sorry, Dedue. Truly. I’m sorry.”

“...”

“...”

“...I see.”

Dimitri sniffled. “Excuse me?”

“I do not know if I can ever truly forgive you, not after what your men did to my family and my homeland. But...your apologies seem genuine. Like they come from the heart, even if they cannot make up for what has been done. Is that why you protected me? Guilt?”

“Pardon?”

“When your soldiers entered my house. The moment they saw me they aimed to kill. Yet their strikes never hit, because you threw yourself in the way first. You could have died. So why?”

“Because you saved my life first,” Dimitri explained. “ I was being chased when I entered your house. Had you not knocked out the one attacking me, I would most certainly not be alive right now. To have you save my life and then be the cause of your death… I could not think of anything more cruel.”

Dedue pressed on, continuing to question Dimitri’s motivations. They must’ve made little sense to anyone other than himself, Dimitri knew, so he couldn’t fault the questions. “But you could have died. Had there not been a healer nearby, you would have bled to death. All for a stranger.”

“Had I not saved you, I might as well have died.” He looked back up, staring into Dedue’s eyes. “So many people died that day to protect me as I stood there helpless. Over and over again the bodies fell in front of me as I stayed frozen, unable to do a single thing. Until you saved me, and I finally snapped out of it long enough to, for the first time that day, be more than just a nuisance and actually help another person. Had I not found you - had I let every single person die - I do not know where I would find the motivation to live on. Knowing I failed so many...it hurts. But you, you are the proof that perhaps I can do good. That perhaps my life is not meaningless. I saved you, even one person. And perhaps it is selfish to hold myself so high for only performing a single worthwhile deed, but as we stand I have nothing else to hold onto. And so I shall continue to hold onto that knowledge, and treasure it. I apologize if it hurt you. What you endured these past-” Dimitri suddenly realized he did not know the date. He could approximate it, given the 31st was sometime in the next week, but he couldn’t say if that was in three days or eight. “-couple of weeks must have been terrible. So, please forgive me.”

“...”

No response.

Perhaps Dimitri had unloaded too much at once. He’d always been terrible at judging how much to tell people and what to say. Sylvain teased him relentlessly for it, and Glenn had liked to crack a sarcastic joke whenever Dimitri visited the knight’s hall and talked for much, much longer than anyone was interested in before he realized the knights had said lack of interest. Or perhaps not a lack of interest, but there was only so long he could go on about something before other people started looking at him funny. He wasn’t the greatest speaker, if he was being honest.

Dedue was giving him a similar look. 

“You should not place so much worth on a single person, friend or stranger. People should not live only because of another person. There is so much more to live for, so many other reasons.”

“And those are?”

“...I am not sure. My village was destroyed, my family along with them. At the moment...all I was living for is gone.” Dedue swallowed hard. “But I will find something new to live for. Like clearing the name of my people. Bringing them justice.”

(justice. the honorable word for vengeance. the word that a good person would use; someone who wasn’t damaged nearly to the point of breaking, to the point his dreams were filled with the calls of the dead, his waking moments prey to stray visions trying to confuse him of what was or wasn’t real in an effort to get him to fulfill their wishes for that word; for vengeance. not justice. justice was too good for him. justice was a word only the virtuous, the honorable, could use)

Dimitri felt a bitter smile creep up his face. “That’s an honorable purpose. Something good to bring them, after all of the undeserved happenings of these past few weeks. Having such a goal is admirable. Meanwhile, here I am, with nothing to show.”

Dedue crossed his arms. “If it is so honorable a purpose, why not share it?”

Dimitri blinked. “Share it?”

A nod. “Yes. You believe my people are innocent. Know they are. I do not have any power, and it would be naive of me to think I will have any anytime soon…” He trailed off, pausing for a moment. Then he gathered himself, speaking once more. “But you are the prince, right? I may not hold any power, but you are at the head of the kingdom. You have the power to bring justice to those who committed the crimes, to expose them for their misdeeds and clear Duscur’s name. I trust you will do good with your knowledge. That you will make things right.”

“Yes…” Dedue was right. Maybe Dimitri didn’t have power right now, but he would. Even if it took until he was on the throne. He would make things right. 

He took a breath, then looked at Dedue with his firmest stare. “I swear on my life that I will make things right. I promise.”

Dedue’s gaze softened. Not much, really, as that flat expression remained, but the softening was there. A sign that although he was still wary of Dimitri, they were making progress toward something closer to neutrality.

(or even friendship, maybe. what dimitri wouldn’t give for a friend; for someone who believed him, who knew the truth, who liked his company as a person and not just an employer who controlled whether they lived or died. not that he’d ever request the second option. but his insistence never seemed to convince people of his honesty. yet another failing.)

The silence that stretched between them wasn’t as awkward this time. Maybe because they’d found a point of agreement. Maybe because they had reached a more natural stopping point in the conversation.

Regardless, Dimitri found himself growing tired of the silence soon enough. A loneliness had been creeping in lately, and the quiet only made it worse. He tried to spark a conversation once more. Not on a happy topic, exactly, but the only thing he could think of that might make Dedue feel better after their heavy conversation.

“I cannot bring your family back, and so I know we cannot celebrate your birthday as you once did. But is there anything else I can do for you? Anything else you would like?”

Dedue blinked a few times. Then, slowly, “anything?”

“Anything within my power,” Dimitri confirmed. “I fear I might not be let very far away from my bed in the next few days, but I might be able to convince the staff to let me go somewhere else in the castle grounds so long as we are escorted there. Or I could ask for something to be brought to you, if you would prefer. I can’t guarantee it will arrive on time if it’s too short notice, but I will try.”

Again, hesitation before a response. “Then do you have any sort of gardens nearby? Gardens, forest, or some sort of natural area?”

“We have gardens, yes. There’s forest nearby as well, but it is located past the first layer of walls and the guards tend to worry about attacks from that direction, so they might not want to let us go that far at the moment. But I could always ask that you be allowed to go without me, if that would please you.”

Dedue shook his head. “No, the gardens would be fine.” He pursed his lips. “...Would you by chance have any Duscur flowers in the garden? They are a deep blue, lighter around the center, with woody stalks.”

Dimitri considered it a moment. He thought he knew which ones those were, having seen fields of beautiful blue flowers as the delegation had gone through Duscur before...things...happened. But he didn’t think he’d ever seen them before that, which meant there likely weren’t any in the gardens unless he’d somehow always managed to miss them.

“I’m not sure. I could request some be brought here if there are not any,” he offered.

Dedue looked down, eyes to the floor. “If there are none here, then there are likely none left at all. Duscur flowers are extremely sensitive. If Duscur itself has burned...the flowers would not have been able to withstand those conditions.”

“Don’t give up yet!” Dimitri shot back, the outburst causing Dedue to snap his head back up with a jerk. Ah, Dimitri had been a little louder than he’d meant to be. He cleared his throat. “That is, there is no need to lose hope. I am sure some remain. If we look hard enough, we will definitely find at least a few!”

Dedue looked unconvinced. “If you insist.”

“Insist? No, I just want to make you happy, I don’t wish to insist upon anything.”

“Why make me happy? What have I done for you?”

“I already told you, you saved my life.”

“But that is…” Dedue sighed. “There is no point in having this conversation again. You are too stubborn to say otherwise.”

Dimitri scoffed. “We’ve known each other for all of twenty minutes. How could you know that?”

“It is obvious,” Dedue replied.

Was that a slight upturn of the lips Dimitri saw?

“Is it, really? Am I that much of an open book?”

Dedue nodded, making Dimitri give a sigh of his own. Stubbornness was a criticism he received sometimes but…

“Well, in this case I’m glad to be stubborn if it’s because I’m insisting you are a good person. Because you are. If you can tell I’m stubborn so quickly, then I can already tell you have good character as well.”

“I don’t believe that’s how it works.”

“I believe it is.”

“No…” 

“Yes!”

Yes. That was a hint of a smile, Dimitri was sure of it. So he gave a large smile of his own. Maybe...maybe he would find a friend in Dedue. And for that he was glad. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Dedue. If he doesn’t seem as loyal to Dimitri as he does in canon, that’s because he’s not meant to be. This story is about character growth/change. Dedue just had his family murdered by Dimitri’s guards. Duscur is being destroyed by Faerghan soldiers, who as far as Dedue knows follow Dimitri’s orders. Even if Dimitri saved Dedue’s life, there shouldn’t be immediate ultimate trust there. Some gratitude is okay, but mostly he’s cautious and confused, and will keep some of that until he and Dimitri talk a bit more and get to become better friends. That's really what I had trouble with: balancing what should logically be distrust of Dimitri given the situation with his canon...reverence, basically, of Dimitri. That and he's only 14 here as opposed to 18. Still, it feels weird and no matter how many rewrites and look overs I do, that weirdness remains. 
> 
> This chapter didn't have a lot of story progress, it mostly being set up for later stuff, so apologies if it dragged a bit. But I felt like the conversations were covering some pretty essential things, and cutting was difficult. Of course, when what were originally 3300 words becomes 7300 there's probably cuttable stuff in there. But while brevity is the soul of wit it is definitely not my forte, so I hope it's all right!
> 
> Anyway thank you for reading another chapter. All kudos and comments are appreciated, no matter how short!


	4. Health

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My goal is to get a chapter out roughly every Sunday. Skipped last week because it was finals week, but now the semester's over and my job doesn't start for another three weeks, so I've got some time to get things prepared in advance. This chapter focuses on a relationship between Dimitri and an OC, but know that this is going to be pretty much the only chapter that does that. Everything else is going to be canon character with canon character, with perhaps a short snippet of an OC here and there because I'm writing about a time the game didn't cover so there have to be OCs sometimes. Also...sometimes I like to give Dimitri nice things. So. Here's a nice guy.

Dedue was ushered out of the room a short time later to make room for the clerics to examine Dimitri. The dungeon knight hadn’t returned so Dimitri assumed Dedue wouldn’t be going back there, but to ensure Dedue wouldn’t be treated like that again, he asked that Dedue be given one of the diplomatic guests’ rooms down the hall. Somewhere with a soft bed and free from the stuffy air of the underground. Somewhere he wouldn’t have to deal with the uncomfortable feeling of being constantly watched.

Well. In theory.

The knights refused to let Dimitri spend a single moment alone. He couldn’t even convince them to close his door for the night while they stood outside; they insisted on keeping it open as they stood by the doorway, out of sight but not out of mind. Somewhere they could peek in at him at any moment. 

It seemed nearly every request he made was either openly or secretly denied, whether it be about his door or another. So for all he knew the guards might have just nodded to please him and requested reinforcements to keep eyes on Dedue at all times, not trusting Dimitri’s judgement of character to be accurate. Not believing him. Not listening.

Taking it all into account, Dimitri felt powerless. (no one to listen to his requests, no one to believe his account of events, no one that wanted to treat him as more than a confused child making a fuss just to get the attention he craved.) Like he couldn’t trust the people that he once had, because they no longer seemed to take him seriously. Because they no longer trusted him either. Or rather, his memories; but memories made a person, so weren’t they one and the same?

Instead, the knights, the clerics, nearly everyone he saw treated him as if he was a pane of glass, cracked and one hard gust of wind away from shattering. As though the slightest visible denial might set him off, so they had to please him without granting any of his desires because they thought that satisfaction might be the final breeze needed to push him over and finally break him. As though they thought he was dumb enough to fall for it. To take their sweet words to heart, to not see through their lies and their empty promises. To not see how they were trying to manipulate him, to-

Dimitri took a sharp breath. His mind was going to dark places again. Jumping to conclusions. Accusing people of things it was possible they  _ might _ be doing, worst case scenario, but almost certainly weren’t.

(or at least, that he hoped they weren’t. but what if they were? 

…

maybe he was made of glass. duscur had been the initial blow; the small dent in the center. and with every hour he sat there, talking to no one but himself, that crack expanded to the edges of the pane, small fragments breaking off piece by piece until he was only a pale imitation of his former self, unable to reflect the boy who once was. mind deteriorating by the day, coming up with the most terrible things to justify just why he was cracking, while only cracking even more.

…

or he was just anxious and overreacting. yes. just an overreaction. he would be fine. he had to be.)

Still, it couldn’t be denied those around him were treating him far more carefully than they ever had. It was frustrating. He was alive, was he not? Well on the road to physical recovery, even. Though he hadn’t been fully awake when it was said, he was fairly certain he’d heard someone tell Rodrigue that Dimitri had passed over initial period during which his survival had been in question. He wasn’t going to die anymore. He wasn’t going to do anything drastic. He just needed to heal so he could get back to his normal life. He was fine. No need to tiptoe around him and the issues at hand.

Though, to ask them to stop would be to admit he noticed. Which, first of all, would be impolite. Second, it would require him to explain why he thought they were tiptoeing around him. Which required acknowledging he knew they thought something was wrong with him. (that he knew something was wrong with him). So he said nothing.

Instead, he allowed himself to relax slightly once a familiar face entered the room. Lord Lucien, a bishop who’d served as Dimitri’s personal doctor for as long as he could remember. With hair in short red waves, bright orange eyes, and a warm smile, Lucien had always been great at calming Dimitri down when he’d come in with a particularly nasty wound from training or a terrible fever that refused to die down on its own. He had a disarming quality about him; something worrisome in most men, but nice when it came to someone like Lucien who was without a doubt one of the most genuine people Dimitri had ever met. 

He hoped that meant Lucien would be honest with him, despite the secrets the other clerics liked to keep. 

Lucien chatted with Dimitri for a few minutes before getting to the examination. Asking him if he’d read anything good while on bedrest (no, the clerics insisted he not use his hands for anything and he did not want someone to read to him. though he didn’t say that second part aloud.). Talking about how his son had turned four the other day and insisted Lucien carry him around the house on his shoulders as though Lucien were his horse. Asking Dimitri if he had any particular worries (that it might take a while, dimitri replied. there were so many more, but he had neither the time nor the energy to list them all). Mentioning the increased security around the castle and how odd it had felt to be escorted straight from the gates rather than allowed to walk in on his own after a quick check-in as he usually did. Small bits and pieces of outside life that let Dimitri get something of a grip on what was going on in the outside world without being inundated with information, while also letting Lucien get something of an understanding of Dimitri’s condition without having to immediately prod into uncomfortable ground.

It was after about five minutes of chatting that Lucien finally began his examination, starting by pulling the covers to the side of the bed to check on Dimitri’s legs. They were bandaged, feet, knees, and ankled completely covered, but they felt relatively fine when Lucien moved them around and prodded in certain areas. He said as much, to which Lucien smiled. The damage to his legs hadn’t been severe, Lucien explained, but the healers had chosen to leave some of the healing to Dimitri’s natural abilities to ensure he healed correctly. A body could only take in so much healing magic before the magic stopped working properly, repairing the flesh in the way that it began to “heal” in deformed, incomplete ways, or even failing to do anything at all. To avoid this, the clerics had left his legs to heal as they would and instead focused on healing his hands, head, and back.

(why hands over legs? if he couldn’t walk properly, his life would be miserable. either he’d be in constant pain as he tried to fulfill his duties, or he’d need to be carried everywhere, which would be shameful. if he couldn’t grip a pen properly, it would be frustrating to tell an aide everything he wanted to write, but he could bear that. for a little while, at least.)

“They did it so you would be able to fight, Dimitri,” Lambert said from his spot by the window. Dimitri swiveled his head to look at him, frowning. Lambert didn’t look back, continuing to gaze out at Fhirdiad with a wistful expression. What did he see, Dimitri wondered, in that world he hadn’t set foot in for so long? Was it cloudy out? Was it sunny? Was the wind whipping the trees to and fro in the courtyard his room overlooked, or was the world still, stuck like a picture? The last world he’d set eyes on was one of chaos; of flames and wind and blinding ash. He hoped this Fhirdiad was nicer. Clear-skied. The blue of a cloudless day would be nice for a change. 

(and then there’d be no gray clouds to remind him of the ash, and the burnt husks of-

…)

Lambert continued on, uncaring for Dimitri’s inner turmoil. “If you could not close your hands, how would you wield Areadbhar? If you could not grip it with the strength of the Blaiddyd crest, how would you succeed on the battlefield and carry on our family’s name? Our purpose? Our kingdom? Your leg injuries fall largely below the knee. Though walking would’ve been painful or difficult were you to not have received any treatment, you could go to battle on a horse. Your steed would be your legs, and you could fight as well as any man. Better, with Areadbhar at your side. A small sacrifice for the greater good. It is your duty, and one you must fulfill. Know that.”

Dimitri opened his mouth to respond, but closed it when he realized he had no good retort. It made perfect sense. Those with crests hadn’t risen to power because people thought they were competent leaders. They became kings and dukes and nobles because they could cut down any who opposed them. Strength, not servitude. That’s why they needed Dimitri. To be an unbeatable foe for any who might oppose Faerghus. 

It was only when Lucien leaned in and interrupted the sightline Dimitri had to his father that he realized he’d zoned out again, blinking a few times before making eye contact to focus back in on whatever was going on. 

Lucien’s expression was one of concern. “Dimitri, are you with me?” he said in a soft voice. “Can you hear me?”

Dimitri frowned. “Yes, of course. Is something wrong?”

Lucien looked to the pair of clerics waiting a few feet away. The two from the day prior, Dimitri noticed. “You say he’s done this before?”

The monk nodded. “Several times. I had originally written it off as part of his fever, thinking the illness it had brought was causing him to hallucinate. But as his fever faded and he came further and further back to clarity, these...  _ moments _ didn’t disappear. It has been easier to break him out of them as time goes on, but they don’t seem any less frequent.” He sighed. “I worry his head wound was not fully or properly healed. It was...well, you saw it, when we first got him. Combined with the blood loss and the shoddy job the field medics did-”

The bishop on her right cut her off. “Don’t insult them. Were it not for the field medics’ work we wouldn’t have the prince here and alive at all. You don’t know what it’s like to have to rush to keep someone from dying as the world devolves around you. Trying to heal someone in the midst of grime and with a lack of equipment is much more difficult than healing a scrape from a training accident or the occasional severe wound that you have all the supplies to deal with-”

Lucien interrupted the bishop before he could finish. “And neither of you two seem to realize you’re upsetting Prince Dimitri, bickering as you are.” 

The two clerics instantly looked guilty, bowing and rushing out apologies Dimitri didn’t feel keen on receiving. 

Frankly, he hadn’t realized he was upset until Lucien mentioned it. He was just staring at the clerics, listening to them yell, not noticing he’d bitten his lip so hard it was already starting to swell painfully. 

Lucien cleared his throat. “Now that we’re all on the same page and not yelling at one another, how are you faring, your highness? I’ve been told you’ve been having headaches; do you have one now? Any discomfort or aches? A side that feels heavier than the other, or hard to hold up?”

_ Finally _ , Dimitri thought. Someone wanted to know how he felt in his own words, rather than moving him about and deciding things for themselves. Someone wanted to listen to him of their own volition. To hear what he had to say, rather than just wait for the end of his speech so they could give those oh-so-frustrating and meaningless smiles he’d received as of late. It was nice. It made him feel as though he wasn’t a complete invalid.

“It’s more that I’ve had one constant headache, rather than recurring ones. Pounding in my temples that shifts as I move my head, sometimes radiating from the top of my neck, sometimes concentrating between the eyes. Sometimes mild, sometimes as if...” He paused. How to describe it...Those moments where it hurt to see, hurt to move, hurt to watch the dizzying world swirling around him. “...as if a grappler were trying to cave my head in with a pair of steel gauntlets, tipped with long spikes to get the deepest, most precise hit, only for some reason my head refuses to cave in and he must repeat his task endlessly, waiting for the moment my skull finally cracks so he can give it one final blow.” 

One of the clerics choked.

Dimitri glanced over to her. Had he said something wrong? Perhaps he’d been too graphic in his description, even though he thought it to be a fairly accurate depiction of what he’d felt. He then looked over Lucien’s shoulder to ask his father his opinion-

Only, once he set eyes on the man, to realize Lambert shouldn’t be there.

His father was dead. His body was either burnt to ashes in Duscur, or lying somewhere far off in a casket. He couldn’t be standing at Dimitri’s window, looking down to Fhirdiad, giving him advice. He couldn’t be smirking at the world below, explaining the doctors had done what they’d done because they saw Dimitri as a tool. He couldn’t be there, alive, reminding Dimitri of his duty. Of the promises he’d made to a dead man. 

And yet. He’d seemed so real.

Lambert turned to face Dimitri, expression flat. Staring into Dimitri’s eyes without emotion, yet somehow instilling a deep terror that made Dimitri’s heart race. Lambert was right there. Right in front of him. And yet he couldn’t be. He had died. He had been-

Dimitri swallowed. Was he hallucinating, then? Had he been permanently injured after that blow to the head? Was that why it pulsed so badly? Because it was straining itself to conjure images and words that didn’t exist?

This time Dimitri was brought out of his thoughts by a pair of hands softly touching his shoulders, making Dimitri jolt backwards as Lambert disappeared with a huff.

Lucien frowned, letting go of Dimitri. He looked slightly apologetic, as though he hadn’t intended to draw Dimitri out of his thoughts so violently. Dimitri internally apologized as Lucien began to pepper him with questions. 

“Dimitri, please. Are you sure you’re with me? Do you know what day it is? Who I am? Why you’re here?”

Dimitri took a breath. “Yes, I’m sure. I apologize for worrying you, I was slightly distracted.” He moved his head to bow, but it just caused the pain to shift forward, increasing in intensity. He straightened, slightly dizzied.

Lucien was looking at him expectantly. Dimitri realized he hadn’t answered the other questions. He’d hoped to get out of those. Nonetheless, he continued.

“And, I am not entirely sure of the date, as no one has told me since I awoke. But, I imagine it’s somewhere near the end of the Verdant Rain Moon. I spoke to my friend Dedue earlier, who mentioned his birthday fell on the 31st, and that it is next week. I’m not sure how long I was unconscious for or what day of the week that is though, so I can’t give you a precise date. I’m sorry.”

Lucien said nothing. Simply silent, waiting for Dimitri to continue.

“As for your identity, you’re Lord Lucien. You’ve come to help me every time I’ve fallen ill or been injured since I was a child. You have a wife and a young child, and serve the royal family whenever called upon, though you live outside the palace.” He swallowed. 

“As for why I’m here…”

Dimitri trailed off. He was in his room in Fhirdiad. He was there because he had been injured and they were keeping him under watch. And he was injured because the world had nearly come to an end in Duscur. 

An end brought about by a manifestation of the Eternal Flames, consuming all in its path, no need to pass judgement or weigh anyone’s sins. Simple destruction, regardless of past or present or cries of repentance. Fire, burning everything around him; burning his clothing, burning his men, burning the houses and the fields and innocents and the sky. Fire, enveloping the area he’d last seen his stepmother’s carriage, carrying the sound of high screams past the pillar of swirling flames blocking his view of her straight into his ears. 

Perhaps those screams had belonged to the villagers who’d been in that area, not his stepmother. He’d never heard her scream in anything other than surprise. He didn’t know what her death throes would sound like, whether they’d be the earsplitting cries he’d heard that day or soft sobs; choked whimpers as she begged for help or strained gurgles out as she gagged on her own blood and the thick layer of ash coating the air around her.

Maybe she hadn’t screamed at all. Maybe she’d been silent as she bled out, the only screams belonging to the innocent villagers dying all around them or the men and women throwing themselves between Dimitri and whatever danger came his way so that he might live. Battle cries as they ran forward; screams as they were cut or blasted down and cried out for the Goddess’ mercy; broken apologies as they begged Dimitri and Lambert to forgive them for their failures. Noise. It was all noise. Whether it was the member of the guard Dimitri hadn’t seen before the trip to Duscur or Glenn who Dimitri had known since he was born only to see die when he too threw himself in front of Dimitri and-

“Dimitri!”

Someone was saying his name again. Louder this time. So many had that day, so it was only fitting he heard it once more. No one screamed his name in joy. Only pain, only worry. Only-

“Dimitri, please.”

Someone had taken his hands in their own, trying to uncurl the fists he’d forced them into. 

He looked up. 

Lucien looked back at him

Ah.

Lucien.

Dimitri realized he was shaking again, stiff and out of breath. His fingernails had broken through the bandages his hands were wrapped in and had cut small crescents into his palms, painting the white red once more. No wonder Lucien was holding his hands so tightly. Maybe it would be for the best to have his nails filed down.

Taking a deep breath, Dimitri did his best to release the tension in his body, his hands slowly uncurling so Lucien could cast a heal spell on them as Rodrigue had the day before. Lucien looked upset, making Dimitri only feel worse. All he’d done lately was make people feel bad. He needed to snap out of it. He needed to fix whatever it was he was doing before he did anything worse.

He swallowed hard. Waited a moment to collect himself.

“I am here...because a terrible thing happened in Duscur, and I-”

“That’s fine, your highness. There’s no need to push yourself.”

“But I-”

Dimitri was cut off when Lucien pulled him forward into a hug, wrapping his warm arms around Dimitri’s body, tight enough to comfort, soft enough not to irritate any of his wounds. Still, his body refused to relax, as if insisting the danger was still there. “I am truly sorry, Prince Dimitri. I was out of line asking such a question. I should’ve known better than to try to make you recall such a thing. I ask your forgiveness, though you don’t need to give it if that’s too much.”

“Forgive?” Dimitri blinked, trying to will away the stiffness in his limbs, the wide eyes that wouldn’t soften. It was embarrassing. Why was he so frozen? Why couldn’t he control the way he reacted to things anymore, the tremors that refused to pause? “There is no need to forgive you. It was my fault. Not yours. I was the one who stood there and did nothing and-”

“And  _ survived _ , your highness,” Lucien insisted. “That was all we could ask for. The spark of hope we need in this dark time. So please, don’t blame yourself. You did the best you could do. You fought hard for your own life, and you won.”

“But so many people died because of me! All those men and women and bright young soldiers who had families back home, gone!”

Lucien took a deep breath. “Perhaps. But they knew what they were risking, when they signed up for the royal guard. They knew what they were doing when they sacrificed themselves to protect you. They didn’t die without reason. They fought so you would survive. And look, here you are, alive.” Lucien pulled away from Dimitri, just enough so they could see each other’s faces. He wore a peaceful smile. “By surviving, you fulfilled their last wishes. You’re a miracle, your highness. The greatest prize they could ask for. And I’m sure that wherever they are now, within the Flames or elsewhere, they’re crying tears of joy to see you have lived on. That their sacrifices were not in vain.”

A wish. A prize. Joy.

He thought they would be happy he survived even though they had not? That sacrifice was the ultimate form of fulfillment, even if that sacrifice had been painful and drawn out? Or quick but full of uncertainty and suffering? 

It reminded Dimitri of what Rodrigue had said; of the words he had put in Glenn’s mouth. It didn’t matter that Glenn had died, because he had died in the service of the crown. A death for the prince was a good death. Even better than survival, somehow.

That idea didn’t sit right with Dimitri. He didn’t want people to die for him. He wanted them to live. To stand by his side, whether as his friends or companions or perhaps even strangers. What good would a corpse do him, especially when that corpse left so many brokenhearted people behind?

He pulled the rest of the way away from Lucien, blinking a few times now that he finally felt in control of himself once more. “Thank you, Lucien.” 

He didn’t really believe what Lucien had to say. No man was happy to die. Death was suffering. Death was the end. But he appreciated the effort, so he wouldn’t berate Lucien for trying. It was nice to know someone wanted him to feel good about himself, even if they were completely wrong in their attempts to make it so.

Meanwhile, Lucien breathed a sigh of relief. “Of course, your highness. I know it might be a hard concept to accept, but I hope that in these coming days you come to believe it as well as you know the sky to be blue.”

Dimitri nodded. “Perhaps.”  _ Unlikely _ . But that did raise a point, something he’d been wondering about. His father- or his father’s phantom, at least- had been staring out the window to the world outside. Dimitri knew little of what it looked like, but he was curious. “How is the weather, if you don’t mind me asking? I haven’t been allowed out of bed yet, so I have not been able to see it for myself for quite some time.”

Lucien blinked. “Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t. It’s fairly cloudy right now. We’re expecting rain tonight or tomorrow.”

Dimitri let a sly smile onto his face. “Then is the sky not gray right now? Not blue?”

Lucien let out a laugh. “That’s not what I meant, your highness. And forgive me if my assumption is wrong, but I do believe you already knew that.”

The smile turned into a full on grin. “Perhaps.”

Lucien shook his head with a few more chuckles before moving onto his examination. He began with Dimitri’s hands, unwrapping the bandages to reveal a sight that brought Dimitri both relief and discomfort.

There were no extreme deformities on Dimitri’s hands. All of his fingers were turned the right way, there weren’t any large bumps that indicated a bone out of place or improperly healed, no chunks of skin missing. But his hands were far from pleasant-looking. Almost every bit of skin he could see was covered in deep nicks or burns, somewhere between a deep-pink and a near-silver depending on the depth of the original wound and the extent to which it had been healed. None still bore scabs, apart from the small crescents his nails had dug into his hands during his...scenes...the past few days. Given he’d had to be healed twice in the past two days, it was likely those marks were permanent additions. Healing magic wasn’t perfect, after all, and the more times an area was healed the more likely it was to scar. 

His hands simply had so many marks that there was more discoloration than normal pigmentation at this point. 

It was tolerable, so long as they worked. Given how horrible they looked, he considered it a miracle he could still grip things properly. He could always just wear gloves.

Lucien ran a finger over the small crescents, wiping away the scabs that had formed but become useless once he’d cast his healing spell. Magic closed the wound, but didn’t erase the evidence it had happened, after all. If it did, bishops would have to replace their robes far less often. Why they wore white when it was bound to soon be stained red Dimitri didn’t know. It seemed like a waste.

His gaze drifted back to the window, the space before it empty as it should be. No Lambert, no Patricia, no Glenn to stare back at him. Their absence brought him a guilty comfort.

And it brought a question.

“Say,” Dimitri began, swallowing hard. “Would you happen to know when my father’s funeral will be held?”

He didn’t mention his step-mother’s. She was a secret that only a select few people knew about, and while Lucien was a part of that small number, neither of his assistants were. He didn’t ask about Glenn either, because that was Rodrigue’s story to tell when he returned later. If the way Rodrigue talked about Glenn was any indication, it was likely he had already had a short and to-the-point military ceremony performed. Something small, with a few surviving members of the guard and maybe Felix. Dimitri hoped Felix was doing okay with everything that had gone on. Suddenly, he felt guilty about taking his father from him. Unless Rodrigue had brought Felix to the castle too, but somehow Dimitri doubted that.

Lucien, meanwhile, stayed silent. He murmured a quiet ‘thank you’ when one of the clerics, whom Dimitri hadn’t even realized had left the room, returned to hand him a small pouch, but that was about it. He removed a piece of some sort of dried stalk and handed it to Dimitri, avoiding looking him in the eyes. “Please suck on this. It should help lessen your headache.”

So he didn’t want to answer Dimitri’s question, then. And after Lucien had seemed so much better than everyone else. After Dimitri had thought he’d finally found someone who could be completely honest with him. 

But he took it in stride, not wanting to push one of the only positive relationships he had left. He popped the offered strip in his mouth. For being so bright red, it didn’t taste like anything. 

Lucien snapped his head up as soon as Dimitri had opened his mouth, blurting out a warning. “Oh but prepare yourself, it’s extremely…” his eyes widened, shoulders falling. “...bitter.”

Dimitri furrowed his brow, words slightly muffled because of the stalk. “Are you certain? It doesn’t have any taste, as far as I can tell. Has it lost its potency?”

Lucien and the clerics exchanged glances. Then Lucien removed another piece of stalk from the bag, poking it with the tip of his tongue. He immediately began to gag, hastily reaching for a glass of water and chugging it down without a second thought. He shook his head, shuddering. “Yes, yes, I’m certain. Torel stalk is known to induce nausea, to the point some people can’t take it at all because the side effect is worse than the benefit they get from the reduced headaches. I meant to warn you first, but I completely spaced.” He cleared his throat. “But you say you taste nothing at all?”

Dimitri nodded in response. Another twinge in his temples made him stop, sucking harder on the not-at-all-bitter plant in his mouth.

“That’s something to take note of, then. Have you noticed any other lack of taste?”

Dimitri paused for a moment. Not really. But he also didn’t remember the last time he’d eaten. He’d been awake for a few days, so he must have had something at some point. But what? And when? Had he truly been so out of it not to remember?

Lucien must’ve taken his silence as some sort of response, because he nodded to one of the clerics who proceeded to scribble something down on a small piece of parchment. 

“Given your head wound and the trauma you went through, that’s not unheard of. When piecing everything together…” Another sigh and a shake of the head. “I’m sorry. At this point I’m just rambling on to avoid your question. I should be answering that, shouldn’t I?”

Another change of topic. For Lucien to go back to the topic he’d previously avoided to avoid talking about Dimitri’s head wound...well, it certainly couldn’t be good.

Lucien looked Dimitri in the eye, apologetic. “It was yesterday.”

Dimitri’s jaw dropped. “What!?”

“...”

“...But I was awake yesterday. I understand that it might have been held while I was still recovering because my uncle and the others might have felt they couldn’t put off the funeral for any longer, but I was already awake by then. Why did no one tell me it was being held? Why was I not allowed to go? Even if both you and they thought me not well enough to walk, why was I not just  _ brought _ there!?”

Dimitri had loved his father more than anyone else in the world. His stepmother was lovely, his friends irreplaceable. But no one had ever come close to Lambert. Lambert was his hero, the man he’d strived to be like one day. They’d always been close. Rodrigue should have- no, not just Rodrigue-  _ everyone _ should have known Dimitri would’ve wanted to attend. Sure, Faerghan funerals were solemn things. Ceremonies mourning the dead, acknowledging how great a loss had occurred and the pain it brought, not celebrations of life as were common in the Alliance. But Dimitri would still have wanted to have been there.

So why would they let him sit unaware in bed all day if his father’s funeral was being held at that same moment, in what Dimitri knew was a cathedral and then family grave only a few minutes away?

Lucien seemed to sense the silent questions. “You’re still recovering, your highness. Though I hate to say it, you’re in no condition to walk around in public, covered in bandages and still healing.”

“I’ve yet to try walking. We don’t know that I am incapable of doing so. And even if I were, could I not have been the first brought in and the last to leave, so that I might’ve sat without the need to try standing in front of anyone and revealing such a weakness?”

“That’s not the part of the sentence I was focusing on, Prince Dimitri. I do believe we should have you start trying to walk tomorrow morning, or perhaps tonight depending on how your back looks when I get to it. But the issue isn’t walking - it’s being in public.

“You were heavily injured, your highness. The public knows that you were injured in the attack, and that you were lucky to escape with your life. Your uncle made sure that knowledge was spread when he launched his attack against Duscur. But the common people hearing reports from royal officials that you were nearly killed and them seeing the injuries you bear from that attempt in public are two very different things. Until you’re looking more like yourself again and the bandages have been removed from your head, you’re not to travel in public. It would crush the last bits of morale our kingdom has if you were to be seen as you are now. Though you may be out of the woods and well on your way to recovery, the mind has a way of worsening fears when given visual evidence it might be right. No matter how much we insist you’re okay, if the heir to the country is seen out and about with a head wound, recovering or not, panic will spread.

“Please, hold on another week or two until we can cast the next few rounds of healing spells. Your condition is still rather delicate, and in order to ensure a full recovery we need to draw out the process a bit so everything heals correctly and no rushed or heavy spells induce any further damage. Once we’ve finished then you’re free to go out as much as your guards allow. But for now...I’m sorry, but orders are orders. It was for the best for Faerghus, I assure you. Even if I know it might not have been the best for you.”

“...”

In that moment, Dimitri felt terribly selfish. He wanted nothing more than to shout that he didn’t care what Faerghus wanted, that he wanted to have been there to see his father put to rest anyway. To see his spirit guided to the next plane, to see him satisfied. Those that died a violent death were said to be trapped between the living world and that of the dead, suffering until they were properly respected and satisfied and allowed to cross. If he wasn’t at the funeral, how did he know that that had been done?

How did he know that the phantom he saw was just a trick of his mind, and not that tormented spirit, unable to leave this world?

But Dimitri couldn’t bring himself to say such things. A terrible feeling of guilt settled in his gut from only thinking them. 

He had a duty to his people. He couldn’t put his own desires above his people's well being. The suffering of one man was acceptable if it was for the benefit of many. As long as that one man was himself.

That’s what he wanted to believe, anyway. His heart told him the exact opposite, but he would ignore it the best he could. Logic over emotion. Even if it hurt.

So, he did. “I understand,” he whispered to Lucien, doing his best to put up a peaceful smile. “Thank you for your concern.”

Lucien seemed to deflate. “Your highness…” 

Dimitri got the feeling that Lucien could sense the incenserity behind his voice and expression. He silently cursed himself for letting it show. He needed to get better at putting up a mask. Even if he was vulnerable, he couldn’t afford to let others see. They would never put their trust in him if he showed them that. He could never relieve their worries if he showed them that. He could never perform his duty if he was weak. He would improve.

Lucien cleared his throat. “Now then, let me get a look at your head.”

Dimitri leaned forward to make it easier for Lucien to remove the bandages. He invited one of the clerics over for a closer look as he performed his examination, carefully poking around at the back of Dimitri’s head where he couldn’t see as he pointed some things out. A lot of it used medical terminology Dimitri wasn’t familiar with, so he didn’t totally understand what was going on, but he did gather that the healing process was meant to be long. He was to stay in bed for at least another five days, if not a week, to avoid jarring his head too much. He was to avoid bright lights and loud sounds, though whether that was to help him heal or just because Lucien knew those made his head hurt hurt, Dimitri didn’t know.

At some point Lucien hit a spot that sent a sudden, intense jolt of pain shooting through Dimitri’s temples, making the world dissolve into a shower of sparks. It took him a few moments to reorient himself, and when the world came back into focus he realized he’d fallen forward into Lucien’s arms. He tried to sit back up when he realized it, but his movements were sluggish, his body not quite listening to what he told it to do. 

Lucien scolded him for it in a friendly way, warning him it was for the best not to move too fast. Head wounds and healing magic were a complicated matter. Healing spells could close wounds, but the brain was a delicate thing, so a lot of healing had to be left to the body’s natural abilities to make sure everything healed properly. A great deal of that natural healing had been done while Dimitri was unconscious, as had a great deal of healing spells been cast. But there were some things they wanted to wait for Dimitri to be awake for. To get his input as they worked, they said. That, and to ensure he was healed while his brain was working at full capacity. Things like that which, quite frankly, scared Dimitri a little. And only increased his admiration for clerics even more. They knew so much, and while it was frustrating to be bedridden so long, he appreciated the care.

Lucien peppered in some other small medical facts and bits of trivia as he continued his examination. Pleasant little things about how healing worked, where he’d studied, how his son was doing back at home. A positive comment about Dimitri’s condition here and there, and all the things he thought were healing nicely or even beyond his expectations. It was reassuring. That was Lucien, all right. Professional when it came down to it, but friendly enough to keep things bright.

Once he was finished he ruffled Dimitri’s hair with a smile, doing it with a soft enough touch that it avoided causing any pangs of pain in his head. 

“All right, I’m done for the day. Tonight I’m going to go over some of my notes with these two to make some tweaks to our treatment plan, and I should be back in the morning to let you in on that. It should be something like a small spell with some salves, plus some regular healing magic over the course of the next week alongside a potion before bed each night. Does that sound fine?”

Dimitri, who had practically no medical experience, nodded. The stalk must have been working - it only hurt half as much as it did earlier. “It does. Thank you for coming here and helping me, truly. I haven’t the slightest idea what I’d do without you.”

Lucien chuckled. “Oh you’d be fine. You’re a fighter, your highness. If anyone could make it through something like this, it would be you. Now make sure you get some good sleep tonight. Healing spells are all well and good, but nothing beats a good night’s rest. You better not have any eye bags in the morning!”

Dimitri chuckled back, a smile on his face. “Understood. I’ll do my best, Lord Lucien. Say hello to your wife and son for me, will you? I would love to greet them in person once I’ve recovered, if possible. I haven’t seen Lady Priscilla in ages.”

Lucien bowed. “As you wish, your highness. I’ll take my leave then.”

With that, he was gone.

A servant entered the room a short time later, bringing a tasteless bowl of soup. Dimitri asked for them to bring a second portion, and to call in Dedue if he was available.

He was told Dedue declined to come. 

It hurt, a little. They’d been getting along well earlier, so Dimitri had hoped Dedue might wish to continue the conversation. But Dimitri supposed the other boy had more than enough reasons not to like him, so he’d accept it. Perhaps their earlier words and the forgiveness or at the very least little bits of understanding that seemed to accompany them had held less weight than Dimitri had thought them to hold. But that was okay. 

There was also the chance that, once again, he was being lied to. Maybe Dedue hadn’t been asked at all. The servant had come back into the room so quickly, after all. Could they have even had the time to ask him?

...No. He was jumping to conclusions again. He couldn’t get anyone to trust him if he didn’t trust others. An overactive imagination, that was all. He was fine. Dedue just didn’t want to have dinner with him. He could do well on his own.

(...not that he always wanted to. it didn’t hurt a little. it hurt a lot. he’s thought he’d found someone who had a chance at understanding what had happened _that_ _day_. the holes it had left. the only other person who had seen the truth. but he was wrong. and he had to use all his power not to draw more crescents into his palms in frustration over that.

(he would be okay. he would. he, and his cold, tasteless soup in a lonely dark room with only a silent, uncaring guard by the door.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun story: The Lucien bitter stalk scene reminds me of this thing in Biology during our unit on genetics where everyone had to taste this funny paper that is apparently extremely disgustingly bitter for some people, but tasteless for others, depending on whether or not you have the right tasting genes. I took 3 different Bio classes with that teacher, & never tasted it, even though most people could. Senior year of High School I had a free period that I spent chilling in her classroom while she taught Freshman Bio. That year, she had a new, 2nd type of paper that tasted even worse for people who could taste it. She had me try it too just for the fun of it, after I watched like 25 people gag on the strips. And again, it tasted like nothing. No one else couldn’t taste either strip. Just me. So it was hilarious to watch everyone’s faces as I put both entire strips on my tongue with a straight face while literally everyone else gagged at some point. Guess I don’t have the good bitter-tasting genes! So maybe that means I’d die in the wild if I had to guess what was safe to eat or not. Eh, whatever. I just won’t eat the weeds.
> 
> More importantly, and much more relevant to the story, Dedue. Dimitri is absolutely right when he worries that the servant didn't actually ask Dedue. They're wary of Dedue, and worry it could be bad if he and Dimitri become friends. They are absolutely 100% wrong, but they're also prejudiced and influenced by the current mindset following Duscur so...that's how they are. Still a terrible mindset though, and not one to be excused.


	5. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally posted this chapter a few weeks ago, but deleted it a few days later. I was never fully happy with it, and decided it was best to take it down and revise it rather than having it up to meet a self-imposed deadline and not liking the contents. This chapter deals with racism on Cornelia's part, which is not meant to be glorified in any way. The first time around it was more blatant, since I was trying to hammer home the whole "Cornelia is not a good person thing," but looking back there was no need for it to be.  
> Some time back I read something about someone wishing more works of fiction didn’t include homophobia as a plot point for the main gay characters to overcome, and instead wished the characters would just be accepted without question because the person was so tired of dealing with homophobia in real life they wished they could escape to a fantasy world where it didn’t exist. Homophobia and racism are not the same thing (though often someone who practices one also practices the other…), but the core idea is the same. Racism exists in 3H, and you can't ignore the often iffy ways the story and characters deal with it. But there's no point in glorifying that. So the scenes here are short, but still there, and I hope the exploration is done in a respectful way.

The next morning was rather uneventful. Apparently Lucien had encountered some sort of unexpected delay, so Dimitri wouldn’t undergo his next examination until that afternoon. Though Dimitri was slightly disappointed because he wanted to get things moving, he took the delay as an opportunity to invite Dedue over for breakfast, hoping to get an idea of why Dedue might not have joined him the night before.

It turns out his worst fears weren’t true. Dedue hadn’t been ignoring him at all - he’d been taken to a tailor to be fitted for new clothing when Dimitri had sent for him, so he hadn’t been in his room when the servant arrived. He hadn’t even known Dimitri had asked after him until Dimitri mentioned it in the morning. 

(which was a bit suspect. not on dedue’s part - never on dedue’s part. but the servants must have known where dedue was. why did they not go to the tailor to tell him? why did they only put in the minimum effort required to momentarily satisfy dimitri, and not enough to actually carry out his wishes? did they think he wouldn’t bother to check?)

Dedue fidgeted during breakfast, shifting in his seat occasionally or pulling at his collar. When Dimitri asked about it, Dedue looked away.

It was the clothing, he explained. The Faerghan style of dress was far tighter than that which he was used to in Duscur, and the material more stiff. As such, it was more restricting than what he was used to, so wearing it felt a bit odd. Not that he wasn’t thankful, Dedue was quick to amend.

Dimitri asked Dedue if he was being honest.

Dedue replied yes. After a few seconds’ hesitation.

Dimitri asked Dedue if he had been threatened or otherwise warned not to say anything negative about the crown’s hospitality.

Dedue looked away once more, wordless.

Dimitri sighed. “You needn’t worry about accidentally being offensive when you are with me, Dedue. With how everyone has treated me as of late, I’d much prefer scalding honesty to false praise. So if anyone has raised a hand to you, or said they would do so if you were to do something they did not like...let me know. I will make sure they do not do so again.” Or, he’d try. He could give the orders, but whether anyone would listen…

“Thank you, Dimitri,” was the response. Dedue turned forward once again, looking Dimitri in the eye. “It is all right, though. No one has said anything explicitly threatening. They have given strong comments, but...nothing like the dungeons. I will be fine.”

“Dedue…”

“Please, Dimitri. I appreciate your concern, but I can take care of myself. I do not need you to fight my battles for me.”

“If you say so,” Dimitri replied, voice tinged with worry. 

He let the topic drop there. He and Dedue were only just getting to know each other, and pushing Dedue to talk about something that made him uncomfortable would get them nowhere. Once they got a better grip on each other’s personalities and once Dimitri finally had the castle staff’s trust back, then he’d try again. Plus, Dedue was right. Dimitri had no right to start trying to take over Dedue’s issues, to push into conversations that were not his own. Dimitri had never experienced what Dedue had. He never would. So he would help where he could and do his best to understand, but he’d defer to Dedue’s judgment when it came down to it. It was Dedue’s life, shaped by experiences Dimitri had never had and never would have, so the decision was Dedue's.

The two then moved on to speak of more pleasant things. Favorite foods, favorite games, favorite plants, and so on. Dimitri had put in a request for someone to locate and bring back some Duscur flowers after Lucien had departed for the night and Dimitri was left to his own devices, so he hoped those would arrive in time for Dedue’s birthday. A little surprise for the person Dimitri hoped would one day be a lasting friend. In the event they didn’t, he hoped their conversation now might give him some insight on what else he could get Dedue, and what a proper Duscur section of the castle gardens might look like. The gardens had sections dedicated to the native plants of Gautier, Fraldarius, Charon, and so on, so it was a shame (and more than a bit odd) there was nothing for Duscur. What Dimitri had seen during his travels through the countryside had been beautiful. It wasn’t as though there was nothing to show.

If things went well, that would change. It was foolish to hope the entire garden would be set up in time for Dedue’s birthday, seeing as they only had four days (Lucien had informed Dimitri it was the 26th at some point the day before). It would be a miracle if any Duscur flowers were even brought before then. But the garden would be up one day. Maybe in time for the New Year’s festival.

All in all, their talk went well. No laughter on Dedue’s part, not with the way a lingering sadness loomed over him, but a smile here or there as they talked about happier things. Dedue seemed to like the (tasteless) berries they had before them. He wasn’t a huge fan of the (tasteless, but firm) herring, but the sharpness of the (tasteless, most unfortunately) cheese was a pleasant surprise compared to what he was used to. No comments on the crackers, but he didn’t seem to mind the (tasteless, though sweet-smelling) gooseberry jam, although he said he preferred the gooseberry jam of Duscur, which had both a different taste and color. They were similar, but it wasn’t quite the same. A wistful expression crossed Dedue’s face at that. Dimitri wasn’t entirely sure how to respond.

The lapse in conversation didn’t last long, however, as their attention was soon drawn to the entrance of three new persons to the room.

At the head of the trio was a woman with salmon-colored hair and a...very revealing dress, complete with a long slit on her left hip that didn’t leave much to the imagination leg-wise and a neckline so low Dimitri was afraid her top would fall straight off. There certainly weren’t any straps to hold the fabric up, the only thing touching the woman’s shoulders being her hair and a gigantic, unbelievably gaudy necklace that draped onto such cleavage in a way Dimitri couldn’t help but feel was meant to draw the gaze to her…

He decided to look away. There were some things he wanted to look at and some he didn’t, and that definitely belonged to the latter part. He wished they were outside so he’d have an excuse to offer her a jacket. Her outfit was...not something he’d wear, to say the least. 

(especially not with what he must look like after duscur. if his hands looked that terrible, what did the rest of him look like? he hadn’t focused very hard on his legs when they were examined, not yet ready to fully acknowledge the extent of the damage, but he could faintly remember discoloration. did his chest look the same? his arms? his back? he couldn’t remember the last time he looked in a mirror. sometime before duscur. did his face…?)

The woman cleared her throat loudly as she stepped closer, Dedue shooting to his feet and backing away from his spot at Dimitri’s bedside table. 

“Oh I’m sorry, I’m not interrupting something am I?” she asked, voice dripping with so much sweetness Dimitri doubted her interruption was anywhere near as unintentional as she posed it to be. Fewer than ten words and he already had a bad feeling about her. 

Dedue shook his head, bowing from his new spot several feet away from both her and Dimitri. “No, ma’am. Dimitri and I were just finishing our conversation. I will be on my way. Apologies.” He took a step toward the door, but stopped when the woman huffed, once again far louder than she needed to.

“Ma’am?” Her left eye twitched. “Do I look old enough to be a ma’am? Either way, that would be  _ Lady Cornelia _ to you.”

Lady Cornelia? The one that had saved them from the plague that had ravaged Faerghus before his birth? If she was, then she was certainly old enough to be a ma’am. Though, somehow she didn’t look nearly as old as that meant she should be…

She continued, hands on her hips and lips in a sneer. “But that’s not important. What  _ is _ important is what you just said. Dimitri? Don’t you mean  _ Prince _ Dimitri? Or  _ His Highness?  _ He has a title, you know. Use it.”

Dimitri bit his lip in frustration. Dedue was his friend; he could call Dimitri whatever he wanted. Dimitri opened his mouth to give his retort, but Dedue beat him to it. 

“Lady? His Highness?” He looked to Dimitri, confused. Then bowed, low enough his chest was parallel to the floor. “I apologize. In Duscur, we do not use titles such as those for our nobility, so I was unaware of that custom.”

Cornelia sighed. “Excuses. His Highness is his Highness to anyone, regardless of where they come from. He’s to be respected, not backhandedly insulted by calling him by his first name alone like he’s some poor child.” She turned to look at Dimitri, pursing her lips in a distorted show of sympathy. “And to rely on Duscur tradition is an especially cruel thing to do around his highness, such a short time after his family was murdered there, right in front of his sweet little eyes. I can’t imagine how painful it must be to be reminded of that.”

Cornelia was putting words in Dimitri’s mouth that he never wanted said. Painful? Talking to Dedue? Not at all. It felt good, if anything. They had been on opposite sides of that day, and their experiences were far from equal, but they had a sort of mutual understanding that they shared with no one else. Talking to Dedue was therapeutic, in a way. Even when they spoke of anything but the Tragedy, simply knowing there was someone who had lived through the same experience and could still recall and reminisce about the happy parts of his past was wonderful. Nothing about being with Dedue was  _ painful _ , not in a way more painful than talking to anyone else.

Not to mention how wrong she was. Dedue didn’t have to forget his customs and his people just because he didn’t live there anymore. So long as Dedue lived, a part of Duscur lived on, and Dimitri would never want Dedue to give that up unless Dedue decided he wanted to himself. And even if he did, it wasn’t because the people of Duscur had committed that atrocity. They hadn’t. He’d promised Rodrigue not to openly admit it, but that didn’t mean he would stand for the Duscur name to be trampled so.

As for his own name...that was his fault, not Dedue’s. With his father and stepmother gone, there was no one left to call him just ‘Dimitri.’ He hardly even heard people say ‘Prince Dimitri’ anymore. Mostly just ‘Your highness.’ Rodrigue called him by his name when he really wanted to get his point across, but for the most part...It was lonely. So he hadn’t asked Dedue to call him by his title because he was desperate for that sort of address, the sort of intimacy that came with a name. And because he was desperate for a friend, not a vassal.

He tried to explain as much to Cornelia. “Excuse me, but-” once more, she cut in before a full sentence could be said. 

This time, she did it with an action rather than words. She leaned in as soon as Dimitri began to speak, his words stopping when she cupped his chin and ran a finger across his cheek. He suddenly stiffened, the touch spiking discomfort beneath it. She was touching him. Skin on skin contact. Nothing indecent, nothing terrible but… but something deeply unsettling, in a way he couldn’t explain. He had never really enjoyed when people touched him. His family and close friends were fine, but strangers weren’t. And now... now he just thought of the hands that had tried to pull him away at Duscur. Of the hands that clung to him as the soldiers they belonged to breathed their lasts breaths and either begged for mercy or apologized for her failure. Touch was discomfort. Touch was pain. Touch was death.

He wanted her to let go. His heart was beating much too fast.

Cornelia’s honeyed voice turned to poison. “Oh, there’s no need to defend me, your highness. I can defend myself just fine, though I am deeply honored you wish to do so. I’m just making sure everyone here knows the castle rules. Were you forced to entertain him, or are you doing it out of pity? I’m sure it must be hard, being reminded of that day. Of the Tragedy, and all the pain it brought you.”

Dimitri pushed her hand from his face. She didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. “No, actually, and I would prefer if you would stop-”

“Oh it must be so hard-” she said, speaking over Dimitri as she swept across the room in a saunter, hands clenched to her chest, dramatic to the point Dimitri was ready to attempt to stand for the very first time since that day just so he could grab her arms and force her to stop. “-looking at him and being reminded of the Tragedy. Being forced to think of the people who killed your parents. Of the men that were skewered trying to save you, their hands never quite reaching even as their blood pooled at your feet. Oh and the ones that burned! Ever so slowly, ever so painfully, caught beneath collapsed buildings and rubbles that cut off their only attempts at escape. Or the poor knights who must’ve bled to death after a blast of magic ripped off a limb, leaving them to fade away in agony as their strength gradually left them.”

Dimitri wanted to tell her to stop. He felt none of those things when he looked at Dedue, was reminded of none of them past faint recollections he quickly pushed away before they could fully materialize. Dedue brought him relief. Not any of those terrible feelings and images this woman was conjuring, painful and much too true in all ways but the people who had caused them. 

But he couldn’t say a word, despite his wished. No, not now. His words caught in his mouth, throat dry. Images he’d tried to push back were flickering forth once more, and it was getting harder and harder to ignore them. 

It didn’t get any better. Cornelia continued on, uncaring for the tremors that were once more wracking Dimitri’s body against his will. “And I can’t begin to imagine what it all must have sounded like! The screams of your soldiers, the cries to escape and to help. The roar of the flames and the cracks of falling buildings, whirling explosions and the winds they created causing collapses all around you. Then the tragedy of being unable to fight back as you were carried away from your stepmother’s carriage when it was engulfed by a pillar of flames before you could reach her, not even able to see her one last time-”

(there was something deeply wrong with that statement. not factually. it was spot on.

but how did she know that? she shouldn’t have known what had happened in such detail. hadn’t rodrigue said dimitri was the only survivor? how did she know that?

how did she know that?

how)

It was getting increasingly difficult to focus on what Cornelia was saying. Words were washed away under phantom sounds and images, nothing really in focus but present enough he couldn’t concentrate on what was being said in the world around him. 

“-and oh Goddess, how sickening it must have been to watch your father cut down when he was so close to escaping! He’d almost reached you, only to have his chances cut away by a slice to the knees, removing his power to run before the blade was brought to his throat and-”

(how di d s h e k n o w)

When Cornelia finally stopped, Dimitri couldn’t even bring it in himself to say he was relieved. The world seemed so far away by then. Did it even matter she’d finished her terrible speech?

She looked down to Dimitri with a stage frown. “Oh my. Have I upset you, your highness? I apologize. I promise that wasn’t my intention.”

( _ lies) _

The tremors hadn’t stopped in the slightest. Only grown, to the point Dimitri could see the plates on his bedside table rattle from the table’s contact with this bed. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care. It hurt. Everything. The memories. The sight. Her. He wanted her to leave. To not return. To never return.

But she didn’t. Instead, she brought a hand up to his face to wipe away a stray tear.

The movement finally released Dimitri from the grip of immobility as he brought up his own hand to slap hers away, not realizing the action had been done until he saw Cornelia’s faked frown turn into a sneer as she recoiled, holding the slapped hand in her good one. He felt so out of it, like there was someone else moving for him. Like there was a film between him and the world, his commands and his actions. The slap had been a reflex.

(and, terrifyingly enough. when he caught a glimpse of red on cornelia’s hand where his nails much have scratched it. he felt happy. pleased. she’d tormented him. he’d hurt her in return. he hadn’t meant to. but she more than deserved it. 

but did she, really? what kind of person did that make him, to revel in pain like so? the feeling scared him, and he once more pushed it away.)

Suddenly his view was blocked. Dedue had stepped between Dimitri and Cornelia, his back to Dimitri and preventing the prince from seeing Dedue’s expression. 

“Lady Cornelia,” Dedue began, voice even but bearing a slight tremble. “Please do not touch Prince Dimitri again. It is making him uncomfortable.”

Cornelia clicked her tongue, holding the hand out of sight so one of her assistants could look at it. Dimitri could see no more than he had already. However, he did see the slight glow of a heal spell, and so his worries (hopes) of having hurt her were confirmed. Cornelia didn’t scold him for it, though. Instead sighing once more. “Yes, I can see that,” she spat.

“Then I ask again, please do not touch him without warning. For his sake as well as yours.”

Cornelia raised an eyebrow, moving her hands to her hips. “Well, so you can hold your own in a conversation. That’s more than I expected.”

“Then I am glad to have exceeded your expectations,” Dedue responded. “Even if the formalities we use in conversation are not the same, speech is highly valued in Duscur. Being able to talk over problems without resorting to violence, threatening people, or provoking them with charged words leads to more peaceful results.”

Cornelia kept quiet. Dimitri internally cheered. Dedue was right. And probably making a jab at Cornelia with the line about provoking people. Both good things. “Thank you, Dedue. Your point is more than true. Diplomacy before violence, whenever possible.”

“...” Cornelia’s fake smile had dropped completely by then. So even she could recognize when she was being called out for her actions. Still, she didn’t seem to care enough to apologize for them. “Yes, I suppose he is. Violence is for the beasts, and we’re all civilized people here. Good good. Glad we agree, nice chat, you know it all. But our sweet chat has to come to an end. I need to get to looking over Dimitri now, and the fewer people crowding the room the better.”

She turned to the two clerics that had come with her. “Will one of you call a guard to bring the Duscur boy back to his room? I need to get to work here, and Goddess knows he’s not going to help anything. The other one of you can go fetch my supplies from my room. Big bag sitting on my dressing table. I don’t care which one does what, just be quick about it.” She gestured to the table they had set up in the room, covered with the vials and other medical supplies Lucien and his assistants had used. “I haven’t the slightest idea what the last doctor was trying to pull, but it clearly wasn’t helping anything. We’re going to have to start all over here. Actually, once you come back from grabbing the guard for the boy, how about you take all these supplies back to the infirmary? That way I’ll have more space to work with. Move along,” she ordered with a wave of the hand, shushing them out the door.

The clerics, this time both women, curtsied before they moved to carry out their duties.

Dimitri swallowed hard, raising his voice before they left the room. “His name is Dedue.”

Cornelia swung around to face him. “Pardon?”

Another swallow. “He’s not ‘the boy.’ His name is Dedue.”

Cornelia raised an eyebrow. She frowned for a moment, but eventually conceded. “Yes, of course. Apologies for not using his name before, I wasn’t aware. Then Lysette, would you be so kind as to take Dedue back to his room so I can get started with Dimitri?” The cleric nodded. Cornelia turned her attention back to Dimitri. “Now settle down, I need to get a look at you.”

Dimitri glanced over to Dedue, still standing awkwardly a few feet away. He wanted to apologize for everything Cornelia had said, to tell Dedue that none of it was true and that he was sorry Dedue had to listen to all that. But Cornelia would doubtlessly devalue anything he had to say, so he knew if he was to get out a true apology, he’d have to wait for a time when they were alone. Dedue seemed to understand somewhat, nodding in Dimitri’s directions when they locked eyes. 

“I’ll talk to you later,” Dimitri told him, hoping it would let Dedue know the conversation wasn’t over. He’d make things right.

“Until then.”

“Until then.”

With that, Dedue was whisked away and Dimitri was left alone with Cornelia.

“Ready to start now?” she asked. Dimitri was surprised. He didn’t think she would bother to get his permission. Then again, she started to reach for the bandages on his head before he responded anyway, so the question was likely just a formality.

He caught her wrist before she made contact, holding it in place. “Where is Lord Lucien? I thought he was in charge of my examinations.”

The words came out slightly jumbled, emphasis on the wrong word and pauses too long as his voice threatened to crack. The images Cornelia had brought back had dazed him, still threatening to overtake his focus if he didn’t concentrate on keeping them away.

Cornelia blinked. “Lord Lucien? Did no one tell you? He had a terrible accident last night. As it stands, his outlook is quite grim...so I’ve come to replace him, to make sure your recovery isn’t impacted by his unfortunate little incident.” She plastered on a smile as Dimitri’s heart sank. Accident? “But don’t you worry about not getting proper care. I’ve been in this business far longer than he has. Do you recognize the name Cornelia Arnim?”

Of course he did. His father had praised her as a miracle worker, though he’d mentioned she’d been acting strangely these past few years, hence why Dimitri had never met her. She was the woman who had saved Faerghus from the plague. A gift from the goddess, some had said.

“I’ll take that look as a yes. So, as I said, there’s no need to worry your highness. I’ll take better care of you then you’ve ever had.”

Dimitri let his hand drop, and Cornelia began to unwrap his bandages. She was far less gentle than Lucien had been, causing Dimitri to flinch over and over again as she knocked a particularly painful spot. By the fourth time he could hear her huffing at the action. He did his best to stay still after that. He was tired of listening to her sighs.

She eventually backed away, crossing her arms. “Well, I see no problem with getting straight to healing spells now. So if you’ll shift a little toward the wall to give me a better angle, I’ll cast it all now and you should be feeling better in no time.”

“All?” Dimitri asked as he moved toward the wall. It hurt to put so much weight on his hands, and he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. “But Lucien said that the healing should be spread out over the course of the week, and-”

“And I’m your doctor now. I’ve seen enough, and I know what to do. Trust me.” Cornelia’s voice turned forceful toward the end of her words.

Dimitri bit his lip to stop himself from giving her a snarky retort. It would be impolite to do so, though not out of place all things considered. He didn’t trust Cornelia, nor her judgement. She’d looked at his head for no more than three minutes (if he was being generous) before she decided she would cast a heal spell. She hadn’t even asked him what his symptoms were. He supposed she could have asked the clerics, but even they would only know secondhand as he didn’t recognize them as anyone who’d come to examine him before. For some reason he doubted she had even done that much. Still, he did as she said. 

The spell she cast was soothing enough. It even made his headache go away for a brief moment. But it was back only a minute later, pounding worse than it had been before Cornelia had come in. From what he understood, deep healing spells were usually low-level and long-lasting. This one felt too powerful and quick, and seemed to only have aggravated the issue. He’d been healed, yes, but whether that healing was done properly…

He glanced back at her, unblinking, expectant. She stared back at him, frowning, displeased. Then she told him to turn back around so she could cast another spell. He had a feeling she wouldn’t have done it if he hadn’t been about to question her.

There were no more spells after that. When the clerics came back, one to clean the table, one to deliver supplies, Cornelia’s application was short and to the point. She employed none of the carefulness Lucien did. 

It could have been that Lucien had been babying Dimitri. It could have been that Cornelia was being much too harsh.

Whatever the reason for the difference, Dimitri missed Lucien. So many things had gone wrong, and so many people had already been taken from him. Why did Lucien, too, have to fall?

Was it because of Dimitri?

Was someone trying to harm Dimitri, upset at his survival? Maybe they thought that by getting rid of Lucien and putting in Cornelia, they could sneak in some sort of last attempt on his life. No one had power like a personal doctor, after all. If something went wrong and Dimitri suddenly passed, she could claim it was an unfortunate late-manifesting side-effect of wounds he’d been dealt during the Tragedy of Duscur. Who would there be to question her claims?

…

Ah. There he was, jumping to conclusions again. Not everyone was out to get him. He shouldn’t think like that.

But if that wasn’t the case, what was? Did Dimitri just have such terrible luck that it spread to those around him? Perhaps the Goddess hard marked him a lost cause; a being who was cursed to harm all those around him. He could think of no good she’d brought to him or his as of late. Just death. Just suffering. The Blaiddyd family was supposed to hold the Goddess’ blessing; a fortune that, while not Her crest, would guide their rule and preserve their health. It was why they had succeeded in their revolution as they split from the Empire; why they were a Holy Kingdom rather than a mere separate nation. And yet...and yet the Goddess had done nothing for his family in their time of need. Nothing for his father, who’d followed the teachings without much question. Nothing for his stepmother, who followed just as well as the average man. Nothing for the soldiers who he’d seen pray to the Goddess for good fortune that morning before they’d begun to ride. Why?

Dimitri pushed the thoughts away. He’d get no answers on the matter from Cornelia. Not that he cared to ask her, regardless. She was a stranger. He couldn’t hate her, not after all she’d done for Faerghus when the plague had hit. But he couldn’t bring himself to trust her either. Not when she’d done nothing to earn it. Not when something about her made his heart pound like it was warning him of some hidden danger. Had he ever seen her before? He didn’t think so but...thinking about it made his head hurt. He let the thoughts drift away.

Cornelia didn’t take much longer. She gave his wounds a once over, removing his bandages, applying a few poultices, and rewrapping what she saw fit. Some burns she said weren’t worth a heal spell. Dimitri was fine with it, so long as it meant her hands were off him, so he sat without complaint.

Before leaving the room, Cornelia ruffled Dimitri’s hair, smiling sweetly at him. The movement jostled his head, concentrating his headache in the spot she’d touched. Dimitri frowned, but said nothing. Cornelia was unphased. “I think that’s enough for today, your highness. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow to finish up, so don’t worry too much if anything still hurts. I’ll fix you soon enough, so just sit tight until then, okay?

“Understood. Thank you, Lady Cornelia. I am in your debt.” Dimitri responded. He hoped he sounded more sincere than he felt. 

Cornelia laughed, a hand in front of her mouth as she did so. “Oh you flatter me, your highness. It’s my duty as a servant to the crown to help you. I’m only happy I could be of service - no debt to repay.”

Good. He’d rather not have to do anything for her.

Cornelia then took her leave, the two clerics she’d brought in trailing her. 

Once more, Dimitri was alone. Not fully; never fully. There was a guard posted outside his room, far enough he could probably whisper something unheard but not talk at a normal volume without being heard. If he truly wished for company, he could always raise his voice and ask to chat. But that depended on whether or not this guard was one of the chatty type. Some were too serious, and politely turned him down because they wished to put their full attention toward guarding the door and watching for intruders or unknowns. Others were too anxious, so scared of insulting their prince that any conversation with them was awkward and unpleasant. But some guards were fun to talk to.

It was more a question of what to talk about. He didn’t know much of what was going on in the outside world at the moment. The past made him gloomy. Thinking of Duscur left him feeling sick to his stomach. Talking about it would probably be worse. He still couldn’t bring himself to think about when his father had been-

been

( _ when the sword had been brought to his neck and _

_ he _

_ was _

_ behea-) _

Dimitri’s mind went blank. Not blackness. Not white. Not static. Just. Nothing.

He decided not to think further on the subject.

His father was no longer alive. That was all he needed to know, and no more. How it had happened...how exactly it had happened wasn’t important. Who had done it and why it had been done were all that mattered. The specifics...he could think about them later, when he was deciding an appropriate punishment for those who had harmed his father. What was important was that the villains behind his father’s death be brought to justice. Dimitri had promised his father as much, after all. 

...Or, he had promised the spectre of his father. The image that Dimitri had conjured of him, trapped in his room, phantoms his most talkative company.

But it wasn’t entirely fake; it wasn’t just his mind trying to make up for the new gaping hole in his life and relationships. Lambert’s dying words had been a plea to avenge him, to make those responsible for his death and the Tragedy suffer. So really, Dimitri’s promise was to the real man, wasn’t it? Perhaps it was made post-mortem, but it was accurate to his memory. It respected the living man’s desires. His vow for revenge was surely what Lambert would have wanted. Surely. He would be pleased with Dimitri’s decision.

So Dimitri could grin and bear it when Cornelia barged into the room and treated him far more roughly than Lucien had, casting spells he thought were premature and bringing up painful images of the past. As long as he recovered to the point he could pick up a lance and fight once more, it didn’t matter how he was treated in the process or the road he took to get there. He had a duty to uphold. A solemn vow. His own discomfort was nothing compared to what his father had gone through. His own wishes were unimportant when put in front of the goal he had to achieve. For the sake of his father, stepmother, Glenn… He’d bear it all. He’d get there one day, no matter the cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it. Next chapter we get some more Rodrigue, and a bit of expansion on Dimitri's concerns with the Goddess. He does mention, I think in the Goddess Tower, that he doesn't think the Goddess would reach out to help people or something like that. I sort of took that idea and rolled with it. But that's for later, since I still need to rewrite that part. 
> 
> Until next time.


	6. Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll probably go back to add this to the first chapter too, but I want to remind people that this Dimitri is not the exact same as in-game Dimitri because he's four years younger and was recently traumatized. He's going to get there, bit by bit. But he's still only 13, and was whatever degree of sheltered a royal kid would be. He's got a lot of room to grow.
> 
> Now for this chapter. I still have another 30,000 words of prewritten stuff in google drive that I have to rewrite, but I rewrote this section entirely over the last two days. Last chapter wasn't my favorite, so I wanted to get past it. This chapter deals with Rodrigue, plus a bit of a crisis of faith to bridge mister Prince of a Holy Kingdom"Dimitri with the "No matter how hard someone begs to be saved, [The Goddess] would never so much as offer her hand." Dimitri we have in game.

Company arrived in the form of Rodrigue and two bowls of soup. A relatively simple meal, which Dimitri appreciated. He didn’t have the energy to sit through some five course mess at the moment. Rodrigue’s presence would make the ordeal somewhat more enjoyable, but for the moment he was glad for simplicity. For a moment to feel neither coddled, nor like an all-important prince. Just a simple meal between a boy and a family friend. 

Rodrigue settled down with a sigh, relaxing into his chair. “How has this day treated you, your highness? I heard you were assigned a new doctor today, after Lucien’s accident. I know how close you two were, so I hope you weren’t too terribly disappointed.”

“Well enough,” Dimitri replied, shifting in bed to throw his legs over the side of the bed so he could sit up. Rodrigue jerked forward to catch Dimitri, likely fearing he would fall, but nothing of the sort happened and Dimitri shooed the man away. Cornelia had let Dimitri move on his own earlier. He would be fine so long as he didn’t actually put any pressure on his feet or ankles. “Lady Cornelia is… Her character is quite different from Lucien’s. Dedue joined me for breakfast this morning, and was still in the room when Lady Cornelia arrived. We were having a pleasant chat at first, but I worry the staff hasn’t been treating him well when I’m not by his side. Though Cornelia seemed to disrespect him even when I was there, and if that’s the level people are willing to show in front of me, I fear he’s treated much worse when he is alone. I cannot imagine what it must be like to deal with that by himself.”

Rodrigue let out a huff. “Really...some people. I’ll have a conversation with the staff about this later, and will try to get something through that thick skull Cornelia has. When I first saw her again after your uncle invited her in, I was surprised at how different she was from the woman I remembered. It’s been over a decade, but still. Acting like that is unacceptable.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m glad you and Dedue are getting along, at least. He seems like a sweet kid. I might drop by his room after this to see if there’s anything he’d like me to do. Hopefully the word of an adult will have some sway on those around him. Goddess knows he hasn’t done anything wrong. He’s the reason we still have you, for one.”

“And he’s a good person,” Dimitri added.

Rodrigue blinked.

“You’re right in saying he saved me, and I am beyond grateful for that service. But his worth goes beyond just what he did for me. He’s a person in his own right, with his own wishes and values. I think that alone makes him worthy of respect.”

“Of course, your highness. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. Like I said, he’s a sweet kid, even outside what he did for you. But what he did is something I’m especially thankful for. Your life is precious, your highness, and the morale retained in our kingdom from your survival alone is more than I or your uncle could ever bring about.”

Dimitri shrugged at that, not sure how to respond. 

Rodrigue took the opportunity to change topics. “Beyond that, I have some good news for you.” Dimitri’s eyes brightened. “Your uncle has agreed to recall the majority of the troops sent to Duscur. Word will be sent out tomorrow morning for an immediate retreat.”

Some of the brightness died away. “The majority? Not all?”

“Unfortunately. Rufus said that some troops have to remain as peacekeeping forces, to keep people from revolting once the brunt of the army’s force is taken away. While you were asleep the council began to discuss putting the Duscur region under another noble’s jurisdiction as well, and there’s no way that will go over very well with those that remain in Duscur even after the order to stop the massacre finally arrives to the troops stationed there. I can only pray that word arrives fast enough that there are still people left when it does.”

“Won’t maintaining a military presence make the people feel threatened? If the message to be sent is that the people of Duscur should not have been punished, then how will keeping Faerghan soldiers there make them feel comfortable? Why have soldiers there except to suppress the people?”

“Because that’s what your uncle ordered, and what the eastern lords agreed with. I may have my opinions, and I may have had a more heavily weighted vote in your father’s court, but your uncle’s words hold power above mine now that your father has passed. Though he hasn’t yet undergone the ceremony to officially grant him powers of the regent, the court knows he will be next to hold the throne of Faerghus, even if only until you come of age.”

“What if I spoke to him?”

“It would be a losing battle, your highness. I know you haven’t spent all that much time around your uncle, seeing as he preferred to stay in his own territory and tended to ignore the letters your father sent him, but trust me when I say that man is too stubborn to be argued with. It doesn’t matter if what he’s doing will bring others pain, or if he realizes such. So long as he won’t be hurt by his actions, he will maintain his stance, simply so he does not appear to go back on himself. He’s-” Rodrigue paused. His voice had been growing more and more severe as he’d spoken, and he’d seemed to finally notice it. “I apologize. He’s your uncle, and my superior. I have no right to say such things. Please forgive me.”

Dimitri shook his head. “No apologies necessary. Though I have not spent much time with my uncle, I’ve heard enough stories and lack thereof to get an idea of what he’s like. I appreciate the honesty.”

Rodrigue chuckled. “I’m glad someone does! If I said that around him I would be running for the hills with at least one eye open at all times.”

A frown slipped onto Dimitri’s face at that. Rodrigue’s chuckles fell away. He moved a hand to Dimitri’s head, ruffling his hair. Unlike when Cornelia had done it, Rodrigue’s gesture didn’t hurt at all. The touch of someone who actually cared about him. It made Dimitri feel just the slightest bit better.

Rodrigue’s voice was soft when he continued. “Worry not, DImitri. Things will be all right. You’ve done the best you can. I’m sure the people of Duscur will be thankful for your mercy when the time comes.”

“What’s important is that they survive, not that they thank me. I would be happy no matter what they think of me, so long as they are alive.”

Rodrigue’s next smile was lopsided, full of melancholy and driven by memories Dimitri couldn’t begin to name. “You truly are your father’s son. Selfless and determined - the characteristics of the perfect knight.”

The perfect knight…

The perfect knight, who put all others before himself. The chivalrous knight, who did all he could to maintain the ideals of his kingdom and protect the weak, no matter the personal cost. The honorable knight, who acted only for righteousness and the pursuit of justice with his head held high, truth and integrity core to his heart. 

Dimitri, a perfect knight? 

On one hand, it was nice to know Rodrigue thought he was already displaying such characteristics. It indicated that perhaps, he wasn’t as much of a failure as he thought he was given the events of the past few weeks.

On the other hand, he knew it was a lie. An fancy phrase Rodrigue pulled out to reassure Dimitri despite his failings, an ideal Rodrigue had known Lambert to uphold and shoved upon Dimitri in his mourning. Lambert was a perfect knight. But Dimitri, who had such selfish thoughts, couldn’t possibly be. He didn’t act on them. He tried his best not to. But what kind of person would hold such thoughts? What good person ever thought such bad things of others, held so much suspicion, felt such calls to violence? Even without executing any such actions, he was surely faulty for having them come to mind so often.

Perhaps he seemed like a candidate for a perfect knight on the surface. But Dimitri knew he was internally flawed. Cracked on the inside. An imitation of the ideal at best. 

But… looking at Rodrigue, seeing the hope in his eyes, the happiness and reminiscence over whatever experiences he and Lambert had had…

Perhaps, even if Dimitri were only an imitation at the moment, he could make it there. He had a long road ahead of him, filled with hundreds of hours of training and study before he could achieve his goal. But if he devoted himself fully to that path, if he made sure to put behind his own desires for the desires of those around him, perhaps he would one day come close to being a perfect knight. The leader Faerghus deserved. The man his father had been, and the man his father had wanted him to be.

“Goddess knows you need to be, what, with your uncle about to bring the country to ruin with his idiocy,” Patricia said with a scoff from her position by the fireplace.

“Isn’t that a little much?” Dimitri asked her, frowning. 

“Saying you’re your father’s son? Praising your selflessness? Not at all,” Rodrigue replied.

Dimitri froze. Turned his gaze from the fireplace to the chair where Rodrigue sat. 

He’d done it again. He’d spoken to someone who wasn’t there. 

Or rather, someone who shouldn’t be there. But he could still see her, lounging on the large chair by the fireplace where she’d so often read him stories when he was young and desperate for company. Except instead of holding a book and bearing a smile, her hands were empty and face twisted into an expression of displeasure. 

Rodrigue drew his eyebrows together. “Is something wrong?” He looked over toward the empty chair. “Ah, if you’re worried about the fireplace, we can hold off on lighting it for the next few nights until you become comfortable with the flames again. We can start with candles, or we can hold off if you prefer. It will get chilly at night, but I can have extra blankets brought in if you need them.”

Count on Rodrigue to only assume the best of him. (Glenn’s words about his father being easy to use came up. Dimitri shoved them back down to the corner of his mind.) It made moments that would otherwise embarrass Dimitri much easier to bear. 

“Thank you for the consideration Rodrigue, but I assure you I will be fine. The servants can light it now, even. The sun is setting, and the room will likely be dark before we’ve finished our meal. I see no reason to have to eat our meal in darkness over some small fear.”

“Are you sure, Dimitri? There’s no shame in waiting a little longer.”

“I am.”

Rodrigue waited a moment, mouth the tiniest bit open as if he were about to say something. But he didn’t, closing it with a sigh before calling over one of the guards who stood at Dimitri’s door. “Find someone to bring in wood for a fire, will you?” The guard bowed and left.

Dimitri then picked up his spoon and took another bite of their dinner. They were having onion gratin soup, one of his favorites. 

It tasted like ash. Dimitri felt sick to his stomach.

“What do you think of the soup?” Dimitri asked between forced mouthfuls. Maybe it was burnt or something. Maybe the smoke from the fire it had been heated over had gotten into it and left an unpleasant aftertaste. 

Rodrigue perked up. “I knew you would pick up on it! A merchant came into town today with an entire cart full of fish, so the trout here is fairly freshed compared to the months long frozen and then thawed pieces we’ve had as of late. Or at least, the frozen ones we’ve had back in my own territory. I can’t say what you’ve been fed in the capital lately, but this is certainly a far cry above what I’ve been eating these past few weeks. Felix has started to glare at the cooks whenever they bring out fish dishes as of late, even if they’re spicy enough to burn the roof off your mouth… But that’s unimportant. This is delicious, isn’t it? It’s absolutely teeming with flavor.”

“Absolutely,” Dimitri repeated, nearly a croak.

So no ashy flavor then. It was all in his head.

Just another thing his mind had made up to trick him.

He hoped that would go away soon.

It was then that two servants entered the room, carrying wood that was soon deposited in the fireplace and lit a minute later.

The moment he saw the first spark, Dimitri’s breath caught in his throat. Ah. Fire. That was. Ah.

He forced himself to look away from the growing flames and concentrated on Rodrigue’s face instead. He couldn’t show weakness. Not over something as small as a regular fire in his own fireplace. He’d grown up watching the logs burn there nightly in winter, and this fire was no different than any of those. If anything, this fire tended to fall far faster than it ever grew. It wasn’t going anywhere, and it certainly wasn’t anything threatening. Even if it were, there was a guard right at the door who could call someone to put it out. Rodrigue would surely pick Dimitri up and rush him out of the room if anything went wrong. No one was getting hurt. The fire was no big deal. None at all. 

_ (then again, hadn’t the fire at duscur also started as a small thing? One second there had been nothing, and the next everything was aflame. what must have been a small smark immediately enveloping everything around him, leaving no room for escape, leaving no time to call for help to put it out. just surprise. just failure. just pain.) _

“So,” Dimitri began, taking a sip of water to wet his throat and remove the taste of ash that only grew stronger once the fire was lit, “did you and my uncle talk about anything else that I should know of?”

“Nothing interesting. We spoke a bit of your recovery, though that’s more of lucien’s place than mine.” He paused. “Or rather, Cornelia’s place now. Poor Lucien. I wish him and his family the best. He was a first generation lord, granted status for his achievements and service to the crown. With his condition now, I fear his son might not have any position to inherit. And Lucien was so close to cementing his family’s status, the poor soul.”

Dimitri’s left eye twitched.

“It was your fault,” Glenn sneered.

‘You’re not real,’ Dimitri thought back.

The flames crackled across the room, as if laughing at Dimitri. Mocking him for his weakness, for his denial of the suffering he brought to those around him simply by his existence.

‘You’re not real either,’ Dimitri told the flames.

A log split in half and fell down the pile in response, creating a loud snapping noise that made Dimitri jump back in a swift jerk.

Rodrigue placed a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder to steady him. “Are you sure you’re all right, your highness? We don’t need to have the fireplace lit so soon-”

“I am perfectly fine, thank you,” Dimitri rushed, much too quickly to actually prove his point.

Still, Rodrigue, ever considerate of Dimitri’s state of being, said nothing about it. “If you say so, your highness. But please, know you can always confide in me. I’ll never judge you, Dimitri. I know that I am not Lambert, that I can never  _ be _ Lambert, but feel free to rely on me in any way that you might have relied on him. Perhaps it is inappropriate to say this, and I apologize if I’ve overstepped my bounds, but I will do my best to serve as a father figure in his absence if that will help you. So don’t hesitate to come to me with whatever troubles you. I’ll be there for you whenever you need me.”

“Thank you,” Dimitri replied. 

When the fire popped again, Rodrigue put his hand over Dimitri’s as the sound made him flinch. Dimitri didn’t try to push him away, letting Rodrigue retract the hand on his own terms.

“In other news, your uncle is to be officially crowned king-regent on the first of the Horsebow Moon. We would like for you to appear at his side, health permitting. It’s why we’ve waited so long after your father’s passing,” Rodrigue explained. 

Dimitri nodded, quiet. His father’s funeral…

Rodrigue caught onto his dark mood. “I must apologize for that as well. I know you loved your father, and that you would’ve wanted to be there for his funeral. I berated myself that day for not telling you about it in advance, but unfortunately the past cannot be unmade. I knew the doctors and other lords wouldn’t have wanted you to appear while still injured, and I feared telling you about the funeral but preventing you from going would only make you more upset. Please forgive me. I will do my best to pull some strings to allow you to visit your father’s grace after the coronation, though, if you’d be up for it.”

Dimitri would’ve jumped for joy were he not sitting. “Of course I would! Oh, thank you Rodrigue. I cannot express how much that means to me.”

Rodrigue’s lips curled up in response. He gave a hearty chuckle. “Now  _ there’s _ the Dimitri I like to see. Bouncing around with a smile on his face. Now I really know you’re getting better!”

Rodrigue’s words brought a smattering of pink across Dimitri’s cheeks. Bouncing around with a smile? That made him sound like a child! But if it reassured Rodrigue, Dimitri supposed it was worth it. The sooner everyone thought Dimitri was back to normal, the better. The sooner they thought he was back to normal, the sooner they would trust him again. The sooner he was back to normal, the sooner the ghosts would disappear. 

Though, normal wasn’t necessarily good if normal meant childish. To wield authority, one had to show maturity. He’d just get to a new normal. A more formal, mature one. One that would make his father proud.

He looked back to the chair by the fireplace, checking to see if his stepmother had disappeared.

She hadn’t.

Instead, she stared back at him, eyes narrowed. The fire seemed to grow higher behind her, nipping at the corners of her multilayered dress, licking her arms and shoulders and any exposed skin. Then she took a step back, getting closer to the flames. Then another. And another. And when her skirt was finally pushed into the fireplace and began to burn, Dimitri snapped his head back to Rodrigue, ignoring the sight.

She was silent, at first. Just judging him. Standing without a word. 

Then, she let out a whimper. A sob. A cry. A scream. Then another, and another, and Dimitri did his best to focus on what he knew was real, in front of him. Not the imaginary sights and sounds from the fireplace. 

But as he focused on Rodrigue the fire let off more sparks behind him, and for the briefest moment he saw a flash of Glenn that made Dimitri’s heart stop. Glenn and Rodrigue had slightly different eye colors, Glenn’s eyes a darker kind of blue, but their hair was the same. Though Glenn typically wore his up, he hd the same waves, usually keeping bangs with those same waves framing his face. Like Rodrigue did. Dimitri bit down hard on his lip to keep from making any noises he’d regret.

It wasn’t real.

Not at all.

But Rodrigue was. So all he had to do was look at Rodrigue.

If only Glenn would leave him alone. 

This time when Rodrigue places a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, he jerked away.

“I’ll put out the fire,” Rodrigue said, voice so different from Glenn’s, but mouth a hard line, eyes so severe in the way Glenn looked so often.

Dimitri swallowed hard. “There’s no need. As I said, I’m feeling perfectly fine. You may leave it as it is.”

Rodrigue took a slow breath, expression softening. “Of course. But may I put it out for myself? My coat is quite heavy, and I’m beginning to get a little warm in here.”

It took a second to process the request. But when he did, Dimitri nodded like his life depended on it, bringing a pounding to his temples that told him the move was stupid, but worth it nonetheless when he felt relief wash over his body the moment Rodrigue finished quenching the flames.

His heart still beat like he’d run the entire length of the castle at full speed. The taste of ash had still come back to his mouth, drying it out. But the stiffness that had overtaken his body began to fade, the tightness in his throat falling away so he could take in deep breaths he hadn’t realized he’d been avoiding.

The reaction wasn’t ideal. He wished none of that stiffness or fear had come at all.

But Dimitri smiled anyway. The reaction wasn’t good, but was better than it had been. It was better. 

Perhaps he wasn’t completely okay. But he was getting there. It was only a matter of time. Bit by bit.

A full blown fire might have been a little too much for him right away. But he could find middle ground. He would just ask for some candles to be lit the next light. Maybe across the room, instead of on the table next to him. He would work his way back up. After all, it wasn’t as though he could go the rest of his life without seeing fire. Especially not if he wanted to live anywhere in Faerghus, whose cold weather and long winter nights meant many days had more hours with fires lit than without.

Rodrigue took the opportunity to change topics. “Did I ever tell you about the time your father and I-” Dimitri cringed without thinking. Rodrigue cleared his throat and tried again, switching topics once more. “Do you remember how I mentioned the fish merchant that just came to town? Well, fish wasn’t all they had. It turns out they’d visited Daerhan before their catch, so they’d brought…”

The conversation they had was nice. Meaningless, average chatter, but nice. So they spoke until moonlight was the only thing illuminating the room and the soup Dimitri had left unfinished had long since gone cold. It was Rodrigue who eventually brought their conversation to a close, telling Dimitri he wanted to make sure Dimitri got a good night’s sleep and that they could continue in the morning, either before or after Dedue came by depending on when Rodrigue’s morning meetings got out. He’d make sure to return with instructions on what Dimitri was to do during the ceremony that would transfer rule to Rufus until Dimitri was of age, and what he should and should not say about the Tragedy.

Dimitri wasn’t particularly happy about his voice being controlled in such a way. He knew the truth, and he so wished to be able to say it, to be able to tell others the story of what had happened that day as he’d seen it, rather than as the soldiers who’d arrived after the fact had pieced it together to be. The truth as it happened, rather than the story according to those who wished to spin a false narrative that would benefit themselves. But Rodrigue insisted it wasn’t an option at the moment. Not until they’d caught those guilty and were sure Dimitri wouldn’t be attacked or killed for speaking out. 

“That was a waste of time,” Lambert scoffed once Dimitri was alone in the room again, his only companion the shadow of a guard stationed on the other side of his half-opened door. 

“No it wasn’t,” Dimitri whispered back, trying not to alert the guard. He could just think his responses, he supposed, but his words felt much more firm when he said them aloud.

His father sighed. “Though Rodrigue was a good friend and believes he’s doing the best for you, you can’t really believe that anything he said after extinguishing the fire had any real substance. It was just to placate you. Not help.”

Dimitri frowned at his father. “And what do you suppose I should have done? Rodrigue was the one directing the conversation. Any time I so much as hinted at anything relating to current events or the state of Faerghus he turned us to another bit of small talk. I was doing the best-”

“You weren’t,” Glenn spat back. “You could’ve just ordered him to talk about real stuff if you actually cared.”

“Not to mention you would never have been wrapped up in such pointless chatter had you not exhibited that moment of weakness,” Lambert added. “Dimitri. How do you expect to rule our kingdom, to crush our enemies, to avenge your stepmother and Glenn and me and all of the other unlucky soldiers who died that day if you can’t even keep your head around a distant, immobile fire? How do you expect to hold your own in battle if you can’t hold your own in your own room?”

“I’m trying!” Dimitri shot back through clenched teeth, as loud as he could be while still only whispering.

“Are you, really?” his stepmother drawled, lounging on the arm of the chair she’d sat in earlier. Her dress was still singed.

“You were the one who stepped into the fire. You were trying to make me upset!”

She let out a stage gasp. “ _ I _ was the one who did it? But Dimitri,  _ you _ were the one who stayed still and did nothing as the flames got to me.  _ You _ were the one who allowed it to happen.”

“But also the one who will not allow it to happen again,” Lambert said before Dimitri could get a word in. He walked over to Dimitri’s side, stopping just inches away. “After all, you swore to me that you would get revenge. On your soul and mine. You will bring them to justice. Right?”

The hand Lambert placed on Dimitri’s shoulder contracted into a tight, near-painful grip. Dimitri nodded fiercely.

“I promise. I promise I will, but please, allow me-!”

“Prince Dimitri”

Dimitri’s head swiveled to the door. The guard was standing there in a ready crouch, sword drawn, head swinging wildly as he looked around the room.

“Are you okay?” he asked, rushing to Dimitri’s side and checking the room once more. “I heard shouting. For a moment I was worried something had happened.”

Dimitri cleared his throat. “A-ah. That was- It was just..” Dimitri swallowed hard, making his own visual sweep across the room. It was just the two of them. The ghosts had left him alone. “A nightmare. I was falling asleep as I spoke to Rodrigue, so I must have completely gone out as soon as he left the room. I apologize for worrying you.”

The guard breathed a heavy sigh of relief. “Good to know. I almost had a heart attack there! But if you say you’re all right, then I’ll let you get some rest. You’ve got a few big days coming up, and I know the last few haven’t been the most peaceful. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to give me a holler and I’ll come over right away. I’m going to be here for the next few hours, and I’m sure my relief would be happy to help too.”

A kind offer. But unnecessary. “Could I ask something of you, then?”

“Of course, your highness. So long as it’s within my power, I’ll do whatever you ask of me.” The guard gave a short bow.

“Then could you please not speak of this little incident to anybody,” Dimitri asked. “It was just a small nightmare, certainly nothing to worry over. I don’t wish for Rodrigue or anyone else to work themselves up into a fit over something so small, and with the way they’ve been watching me as of late I do not doubt they would were they to hear of this. So could you please keep this to yourself? No harm meant.”

“Got it, highness. I came in here to check on you as a precautionary measure. Just a normal part of my guard duty, making sure you’re safe from all angles. No sounds or special reasons why.”

The guard winked, walking out of the room with a skip in his step. Once more, Dimitri was alone.

Or, he hoped he was. He scanned the room to make sure he was, in fact, alone. As he saw no other figures lurking in the shadows he decided they must have finally left him alone for the night. And so, he settled into bed with a sigh, shifting to make himself comfortable under the covers.

He had to stop talking to them. To the ghosts. The spectres. The phantoms. They weren’t real. They couldn’t be. They just  _ looked _ so real, so solid, so alike to everyone and everything else that it was hard to be sure without reminding himself of their deaths. Which made him sick to the stomach just to think about, but it was the only way to ground himself in reality; reminding himself of what had happened in the past few days, the steps he’d taken to reach his current situation. 

So, finally alone, he slept.

…

Or, tried to. He would close his eyes for a moment, feel himself drifting off, and then  _ something  _ would inevitably come up, making him jerk awake, biting down to stop a scream. His lips were swollen after doing it so many times, and he wondered if, had he still had a sense of taste, he would taste blood.

The images Cornelia had brought up during her visit were returning in full. The soldiers, burnt and bloody, writhing on the ground as they succumbed to their wounds or pointlessly tried to crawl away from the buildings they’d been tosset at that were on the verge of collapse. The soldiers, inching their ways in a fruitless effort to find somewhere safe to hide away until the too-late help arrived. The soldiers, their unfocused eyes passing over Dimitri’s as he watched, knowing there was nothing he could do to save them or even ease their pain, lacking any and all healing abilities that could’ve made their deaths the slightest bit more peaceful, even if it was too late to save them. 

But the dying soldiers weren’t the only ones who plagued his memories. For every familiar corpse he could not save, there was a familiar face he could not stop, cutting down the innocent Duscur citizens who had been caught up in the mess. Some citizens had run away, children pressed tight to their chests as they tried to escape the chaos around them. Some had stayed behind, trying to rescue those trapped underneath collapsed buildings or help those who had been injured and could no longer walk. Some had tried to fight back to protect themselves, their families, their neighbors, their way of life. And some had frozen as Dimitri had, shocked into stillness ad they watched their world burn down around them, sky so full of smoke and flames there was no way of knowing which direction could even bring safety. All innocent civilians, so many begging for mercy as the soldiers of Faerghus and the strange robed attackers alike put an end to their lives in what should have been two-way battle that would eventually, unfortunately, be attributed to a third party. To the innocent people themselves.

So many had tried to run, in a frenzy to find anywhere that could grant them a moment’s reprieve from the danger around them. They’d gone past the body of his father, past the spot he’d last seen his stepmother before she and her carriage had disappeared beneath the flames, past the spot he and his father had escaped from their own carriage, where Lambert had shouted orders to their small guard to protect Dimitri and get him out of there while Lambert stayed and fought. Where Areadbhar was bloodied before Dimitri’s eyes for the first time. Where Lambert began the fight that would lead to his death and his departure from Dimitri’s life.

And oh Goddess, the image had cemented itself into Dimitri’s mind. First, his father’s back as Dimitri was dragged away while Lambert tried to take out their attackers. Second, that tattered cape, that bloody armor, that terrible sight as his father collapsed to the ground after his knees had been slashed from behind, back straight as his eyes pierced Dimitri’s soul and he gave that one final order before he was-

he was-

_ (he was  _

_ beheaded.  _

_ and oh how his head rolled across the ashy ground, straight toward dimitri’s feet, not quite reaching but closing in nonetheless, as if in one final push to pass on his message- _

_ ) _

It was a miracle the guard didn’t hear Dimitri wheeze as the images assaulted him, making it harder and harder to breathe as his throat closed up and his lungs tightened and the world seemed to collapse in on him as so many images came to mind that made him sck but he couldn’t fight and it was terrible and oh Goddess why didn’t she help him-

Why?

Why?

His breaths slowed. His throat relaxed. Lungs expanded.

Why, it was obvious. 

It was because the Goddess didn’t care. 

She didn’t care to listen to his prayers. She didn’t care to listen to his curses, his hatred, his anything.

There was no other answer. Either She didn’t exist, or She didn’t care. In either case, she would give him no help. It was so obvious. So, so obvious! And yet he’d taken so long to come to the conclusion. He really was out of it, wasn’t he?

Dimitri had been raised on the words of the church since the moment he was born, reared with the teachings which so highly praised their Progenitor God, their Beginning. The birth of a child was always celebrated with prayers to the Goddess in thanks for Her gift of life, each birthday thereafter including at least a few verses spoken to give Her praise. Though Dimitri couldn’t remember those first few years, he could remember more than enough birthdays thanking Her. Though his first memories were of standing with his father in the training yard, a training sword in his hand (it was easier to train a child with a sword than a lance, regardless of blood right, simply because of an issue of balance), his second were of sitting in his father’s lap in the library, a book of children’s prayers in front of them as his father read the words Dimitri could not yet read. Said book was what had guided Dimitri to literacy, repeatedly traced snippets of scripture so heavily ingrained in Dimitri’s mind he could recall nearly any line when given the verse. 

The Goddess granted knowledge. She granted literacy. She granted hope. And for the Son of the Holy Kingdom, she granted power as well. Faerghus had succeeded in its secession from Adrestia because of its faith, it was said. Because Loog and Kyphon and Pan and the noble houses and people behind them had held such firm faith in the Goddess that She had gifted them with an ultimate power to succeed, overcoming the superior Adrestian numbers and resources that they would not otherwise have been able to defeat.

As the one to inherit the Holy Kingdom, blessed by the Goddess, it was Dimitri’s duty to believe in Her. To live his life not only according to the rules of his nation, but according to the teaching She had set out for them. Kingdom law and the Goddess’ original teachings came into conflict in only a handful of obscure places, and even then they did not conflict so much as simply not match up one-hundred percent.

(some teachings had changed over time, dimitri had learned. the central church, led by the archbishop, acted as if all they did was the same as it had been at the beginning, but the ancient books preserved in the blaiddyd family library passed down from the hero who had brought their name into legend said otherwise. that was not knowledge to be shared with the public, though. just something his family kept so that, if there ever came a time when one of the main branches of the church seemed to stray too far from the original teachings, the holy kingdom could split off to form their own branch from the original materials to stay true to their origins. it was not the church but the king who had the final say in determining their laws, after all, for which the king would consult the ancient tomes before he consulted the archbishop, trading carefully to neither reveal that knowledge nor insult her.

Dimitri had been born in a land that was built upon keeping the Goddess as its heart. Saying She didn’t care for them, or even so much as implying She didn’t exist was tantamount to both blasphemy and treason. 

And yet…

And yet after Duscur, he questioned why he was praying to Her. Why he had always prayed to Her. What gifts had She brought them since the creation of the kingdom? What proof did they have that it was even Her who had allowed them to succeed, and not just the determination and devotion and power of their own people?

The Kingdom had done all it could over its existence to preserve Her original rules as they could best be integrated into a modern, changed society. The royal family said their prayers daily, even if they only went to an official service once a week, occasionally more when special days of observation arose. Dimitri had grown up thinking of the Goddess as the embodiment of kindness and caring and aid and mercy and so much more. The origin of all those good qualities, which he tried so hard to embody himself. Their Beginning.

And yet when the heart of the Kingdom was struck with the beginnings of a tragedy; when the royal family that for nearly a thousand years, even before they had become royalty themselves, was faced with the most brutal extermination possible…

She did nothing.

She allowed them to die. To suffer while doing so.

It was then that Dimitri decided if the Goddess truly did exist (and oh was it terrifying, thinking that. thinking of an  _ if.  _ such a thought, that  _ if _ , had crossed his mind before, but he’d never actually entertained the thought. always shoved it away, scoffed it off. yet now…)... _ she _ was no ultimately gracious being, as the church claimed she was.

If the Goddess truly did exist, as elusive and lacking in proof she was, then she certainly had no love for him. No love for his family. No love for the devotees who had done all they possibly could to show their reverence of her, their devotion to her cause, their faithfulness their loyalty their piety their dedication their love-

If the Goddess did exist, then she was not deserving of Dimitri’s prayers. She did not care for him. She did not help in his time of need, nor in his suffering afterwards. Saving his life was not an act of mercy or kindness when so many others perished in front of him. For what did he have to thank her?

The Goddess was not the ultimate truth he’d always been presented with. She did not pay back devotion and kindness with any physical reward. Any meaningful aid. 

What proof was there that she even existed? No person still bore her crest. No prophets had appeared in a thousand years. No miracles that had been attributed to her couldn’t be attributed to one of the Saints instead, or to extreme, but still natural phenomena.

Either the Goddess didn’t exist, or she didn’t care to lend a hand to aid Dimitri and those he loved. Those who had put countless hours into worshipping her and doing as her faith decreed.

And so, for the first time in his life where he did not simply forget to do so, Dimitri went to bed without prayers.

He did not know the Goddess existed. He had never seen her.

What he had seen were the flames. The flames which had consumed everything. The flames that had never seemed to go out, no matter what feeble attempts those caught up in them made to quench them. The Eternal Flames, burning all to the ground, consuming innocent and guilty alike.

The Goddess of scripture might not exist. But the Eternal Flames certainly did.

They had consumed his father. His stepmother. Glenn.

Surely one day they would come for him too. While the Goddess turned a blind eye to him, the Flames would be there. They would find him. They would return him to the ones he loved, even if he had to burn for decades or centuries within their furthest depths to atone for his inaction and sins. 

That thought shouldn’t have been nearly as comforting as it was. But alas, it was with that thought that Dimitri was finally able to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there we have it! I forgot to write down my panned ANs as I wrote this chapter so I know I'm forgetting something, but I'll add it back in at a later date if I remember.
> 
> First - capitalization. If you noticed, I changed from Dimitri using She and Her for the Goddess to she and her after he really decided she wasn't doing him any good. I was trying to reflect how differently he thought of her after his revelation, hence the change. 
> 
> Second - the Eternal Flames. Post time skip, pre Gronder Dimitri really goes intense on the Eternal Flames references. I'd like to think of them as something that was mentioned in Scripture, or perhaps a remnant of a local religion that existed in the Faerghus region pre-Church of Seiros that stuck around even after said church took over as the main religion. That's what happened with a lot of places taken over by Christianity, in simple terms, which is a similarly gigantic religion.
> 
> Third - who knows. I think I had something to say about Rodrigue. I feel like he's someone who has really good intentions but often poor execution. I wrote a thing about it in discord some time back that has since been lost, but that's the base of it. I just want Dimitri to have a supportive adult figure in his life, even if Rodrigue's way of support and ideals can be a bit iffy.
> 
> Comments and kudos are always appreciated, and thank you for reading. Until next time.


	7. Talks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than the others, but it was either publish a 5,000 word long chapter today/tomorrow, or wait to write the rest and post a gigantic 15,000 word chapter a week or two from now (based on my calculations of how long the original draft times my 1.5 times increase rate). I figured 15,000 words was too long given the average chapter length for this fic, so the 5k chapter it is. So is what happens with in depth stories. You go really into depth in some places and a single scene stretches on for 10,000 words. Whoops. Regardless, here's some time with Dimitri and Dedue, plus an OC who might show up again sometime in the future...

The next morning brought another visit from Cornelia, this one slightly better than the last. She didn’t attempt any deep (too-early) healing spells as she had the day before, nor did she make any more attempts at setting him off by bringing up graphic memories better left in the past. Instead, she unwrapped his bandages without a single quip, casting relatively gentle healing spells atop his skin to make him as presentable as possible so he didn’t cause a scene by showing up to the ceremony covered in wounds the next day. Because apparently beauty came before functionality. As long as his skin looked pretty, his uncle would be happy.

The reminder only served to make Dimitri all the more uncomfortable in his own skin. Skin which was covered in scars and burn marks and other unpleasant splotches that increased his self-consciousness to a level he never thought he'd achieve...

But skin could be covered up. He didn't have to look at it. He could take a deep breath and move on with his life. He could hide it, and avoid the judgment that came with it. Hopefully. 

His inner turmoil went unnoticed by Cornelia, who had her eyes on a particularly stubborn spot on the back of his neck. His hair, previously long enough to brush his shoulders, had been cut so it only just brushed his ears now. Apparently a significant portion had been scorched by the flames to a point that was irredeemable, so they had trimmed most of it off in an attempt to make him more presentable. That and so the clerics could get a closer look at his head while they healed him. He was eternally grateful they didn't have to shave anything. Having hair as short as it was was uncomfortable enough. He'd always kept it long, whether to his shoulders as it had been before Duscur or a few inches longer as he'd worn it when he was younger and felt like imitating his stepmother. It never got as long as Glenn's, whose hair went down to the small of his back when it wasn't up in the complex looping ponytail bun thing he had going on, but it was the longest of his group of friends.

The thought of Glenn made a spark of pain lance through his chest. Glenn... What had he looked like, when the reinforcements finally arrived? 

Had his body been wounded but whole, as Dimitri had last seen him? Had he been partially crushed by debris from a nearby house that came down upon him when it collapsed? Had the fires consumed his corpse, boiling the flesh caught beneath that pitch-black armor and scorching the exposed skin until it was unrecognizable? Or had they blazed so hot there was nothing but ash left to collect?

Imagining such scenarios made Dimitri feel sick. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

It didn’t really make the feeling go away.

He stewed over his feelings in silence as Cornelia finished her examination with a huff, declaring him healed enough to not need bandages anymore. The skin was fragile from being healed so many times in a short period so he’d have to be careful not to rub it too hard and to avoid any slightly-sharp surfaces, which could open one of his wounds back up far easier than normal contact would. But other than that, he was good to go.

Before Cornelia took her leave Dimitri decided to mention the headaches he’d been having. Or rather the headache, singular. Because the pain never truly went away, even if the intensity sometimes decreased to a low thrum in times of calm. It just faded to a near-ignorable level at times. 

It took Cornelia a good two seconds to plaster an over-the-top look of concern over her previously bored expression, accompanied by more honeyed apologies and as assurance that she’d find out how to make them go away in no time if they didn’t disappear on their own. It was probably just the stress, she said, as though his head injuries couldn’t possibly have been related to the issue. But she’d still look it up,  _ just _ for his highness, even if she had to go through all of the medical texts in Fhirdiad’s royal library! Because she’d have nothing but the best for her sweet prince, who never should have gone through the (graphic description again, but thankfully in slightly less detail this time) ordeal he’d encountered.

Dimitri returned her unquestionably false promises and fake expression with an insincere smile and empty thanks of his own. Ones filled with as much kindness as he could manage, but empty nonetheless given he couldn’t truly call upon himself to be happy for the woman. Hopefully they seemed more genuine than what she had given him. He wouldn’t allow himself to be stepped on so long as he could help it, but he wasn’t going to create an issue if he could avoid it. 

It was important to keep up appearances, whether that be motivated by legitimate feelings or presented with artificial masks, and he had to start somewhere. If the aches in his body and pain in his head were going to be constants in his life from then on, or if the ghosts decided they wanted to stay by his side, he would need to get better at ignoring it all. At pretending he was doing well. Like he was a healthy, mentally-sound young man who wasn’t getting dragged down by problems he seemed unable to do anything about that shouldn’t even have existed in the first place. What good would he do at managing the problems of a kingdom if he couldn’t even manage the pains and problems dealt to him by his own mind? How could he get anyone to rely upon him and trust him with their worries and concerns if he seemed unable to manage even his own?

He took a deep breath. Thinking such negative things wouldn’t help him get past his anxieties - it would only worsen them. Instead, he would concentrate on his goals. So long as he could present others with a smile and peaceful expression regardless of what was weighing him down internally, he would be fine. Smiling and extending kindness to someone he was fairly sure did not care for him and he certainly didn’t care for in return seemed a relatively good way to build up that ability. He didn’t suppose it would get much harder than that. He wasn’t sure whether Cornelia bought the false pleasantries he presented her, but she didn’t say anything snippy in return, so he considered it a victory. A small one, but a victory nonetheless.

The last instruction Cornelia gave before she left for the day was for Dimtri to practice walking around the room. That way he’d give the muscles he hadn’t used over the last couple of weeks while in bed a chance to loosen up and get back to normal. The cleric Cornelia had brought with her would be staying with him as he did, making sure he didn’t push himself and cause some sort of damage that couldn’t be healed before the ceremony. He would be allowed to sit for the majority of the event, but there would be a few portions in which he was required to stand, so it was essential for Dimitri to practice walking and return himself to a normal gait lest he risk embarrassing himself and frightening the Kingdom by collapsing in public. Cornelia didn’t know the exact length of time Dimitri would have to be up for, seeing as that was still being discussed at the moment, so all she could suggest was to do the best he could. She did sound genuine when she suggested that, which was a pleasant turn of tone. Who knew she could be encouraging and mean it.

(again, the negative thoughts. he had to stop with that.

...but, was it so bad if it was true?)

Cornelia waited until Dimitri had made a full lap around his room before she exited, leaving the cleric behind. The cleric was kind, encouraging Dimitri to do his best without pushing himself too hard. She was a petite thing, about Dimitri’s height and probably only a few years older. Her wavy black bob bounced as she gave instructions, tone considerably softer than Cornelia’s. Dimitri asked for her name a few laps in, when his ankles began to protest each step he took, particularly harsh when he tried to turn. He wasn’t making very fast or sharp movements. But still they hurt, and he was worried about what it would feel like to try to pivot when he resumed training. There was no way to avoid the motion if he wanted to use proper stances. Hopefully the pain would be gone by then.

He voiced neither his concern nor his pain to the cleric though, who was named Lilienne and the youngest of three children. Instead he walked, step after step, following each instruction Lilienne gave him between stories about her siblings. 

Her older brother had apparently joined the knights of Faerghus, and was normally stationed in Fhirdiad. She hadn’t seen him in a few weeks however, as he’d been sent out to the Duscur border as soon as the news of the Tragedy had reached the capital city. Thankfully he’d sent a letter a few days later saying he’d arrived safely and was stationed in an area that was said to be overall peaceful, so even though it had been a few days since she’d heard from him, she wasn’t worried about his safety. He was a great knight. A lance wielding paladin who’d been dabbling in faith magic recently, trying to work his way toward becoming an official Holy Knight certification. Lilienne thought it was impressive, and was debating whether she too wanted to become a Holy Knight one day, so that she might heal people far out on the field, or whether she wanted to stop once she was a Bishop, so that she might be the head of her own medic-church one day. Their father had been a Holy Knight, apparently, and their mother a non-combatant priestess with a talent for faith magic. The gift seemed to have skipped her elder sister, though, who had gotten married about a year back and had moved to Charon territory. She sent letters about her husband often. In her last one, she’d apparently mentioned she was pregnant, so Lilienne was quite excited about becoming an aunt. 

It was after about twenty minutes of rambling about her life while Dimitri made laps around his room that Lilienne suddenly stopped, eyes wide. 

She took a sharp breath to mark her pause, shooting to her feet. “Oh I’m terribly sorry your highness! That was inconsiderate of me, going on about my own life like that for so long. I should have asked first, or really just concentrated on the task at hand instead. Please forgive me!” she rushed, bowing as she did so.

Dimitri paused in his steps, using the opportunity to take a deep breath. Walking was harder than he imagined it would be. Mentally straining in addition to the suprising physical difficulty.

“It’s all right,” he assured Lilienne. “Frankly, it’s appreciated. I find it much more pleasant to walk around in circles when someone is talking about something that makes them happy than when it’s completely silent. Your company is a pleasure.”

A blush crossed Lilienne’s face. Had Dimitri said something wrong? “You’re too kind, highness. But I’m glad not to be a bother!” The blush faded, replaced by a questioning look, Lilienne’s head tilted slightly to the side. “How are your legs faring? You’ve been going for a while now, so I think it’s time you sit for a few minutes to recover before starting again.” She gestured to his bed, the sheets pushed aside. 

She continued, tone more even and instructive. “Normally someone with injuries like yours would be given more time to recover before practicing walking again, and even then would be given more slow and spread out practice time, so your case is a bit of a unique one. It’s an unconventional situation, so we had to go for a more unconventional approach.” Again her eyes widened with a realization. She quickly waved her hands in front of her, as if trying to shoo away any fears he might have had. “Not that that is bad! Lady Cornelia has assured me what we’re doing will work just fine, and that people used to do it all the time before it fell out of practice because the new way is a little gentler on the body and people tended to be happier with how that felt. Good old ‘people over time have gotten softer and less able to deal with pain’ mentality, you know? Um, sort of. Anyway, I’m sorry you have to go through this right now, but I promise you you’ll feel better in no time!”

Dimitri chose not to comment on her uncertainty, instead doing as she said and moving to rest on his bed. His ankles cried out at him once more when he used them to propel himself onto his bed with a jump that wasn’t entirely necessary, but fun nonetheless. Lilienne followed (by kneeling at his bedside, not jumping on it in a painful way as he had absentmindedly done), checking up on his legs and feet and muttering slightly to herself as she raised them and cast the occasional minor spell. Mostly she just pressed different points. Pressure points, apparently. It still put Dimitri on edge to be touched by another person, goosebumps appearing on his skin and hair standing on end, but at least she wasn’t as unpleasant about it as Cornelia had been.

After a few minutes of that Lilienne had Dimitri start walking again. They continued as they had been until noon, with Lilienne talking about her family as Dimitri did laps, occasionally pausing for a brief break before continuing once more. When the nearby cathedral bells finally rang marking the midday hour, Lilienne departed, telling him she hoped to have the chance to come back another time to help with his healing process. Dimitri thanked her, and said he wished the same. She seemed kind, and had a contagious positivity about her. She was definitely one of the most pleasant people Dimitri had had the chance of seeing since he’d returned to the castle, so he wished her the best.

Lunch arrived a few minutes after Lilienne left. And with lunch came Dedue.

He seemed to be doing better than the last time they spoke, which was a welcome sight. Apparently the number of guards outside his door had been reduced from one to two, and the new one he’d been appointed was significantly less invasive (suspicious) than the previous one. In addition, he’d been largely left to himself after leaving Dimitri’s room the previous afternoon, which he much preferred to constant questions or being taken around the castle for fittings and the like. Sometimes it was nice to be left alone. 

He still hadn’t been let outside though. He’d asked once, only to be met with silence, which held an implied denial. In other words, he was still trapped. Still being treated like a prisoner. Dimitri’s silent words, not Dedue’s, but the implications were clear. 

(had he really improved anything for dedue over the past few days? being in his own room must have been better than being in the dungeons, but dedue still wasn’t being treated with the sort of respect he deserved. he wasn’t allowed to be alone, had his motivations constantly questioned… was keeping dedue with him in the castle truly the best course of action? should dimitri have been trying to locate any possible living family members to send dedue back with instead? dedue said no one remained, but maybe he was wrong. rodrigue had said troops would withdraw from duscur. maybe some relatives had been spared by that declaration. maybe dedue would be happier with them, where he could be with familiar faces and familiar scenery and familiar family who knew him far better than dimitri probably ever would. 

was he being selfish, asking dedue to stay in the castle? ...had he even asked? or had he just forced dedue to stay there? what would happen if dimitri brought it up? if he said something, he risked upsetting dedue if the answer was no. maybe it was best to stay silent.

(or maybe that was just the excuse he fed himself to avoid feeling responsible for even more suffering))

Hoping Dedue might appreciate the change of scenery, Dimitri asked him if he would like to visit the gardens for his birthday. Given the rate of Dimitri’s recovery, he was certain he would be strong enough to walk through the gardens the next day. That way he could show Dedue all of his favorite plants, and have a conversation in a much more pleasant area than his stuffy half-medical-ward-room. And he would make certain he walked regardless of whether it was ‘allowed’ or not. He did not need to be coddled. He could walk on his own for an hour.

Dedue was receptive to the idea. He had a love for nature, and was curious what types of flora Fhirdiad’s castle garden held. He’d never left Duscur before, so he looked forward to getting to see plants he hadn’t seen yet. The fresh air would also be appreciated. Being stuck indoors for so long, in a castle where for some reason overly scented candles were used to light several halls, was a bit overwhelming. 

That Dimitri could agree with. 

Dedue had a melancholic aura to him as he spoke, staring out the window at whatever it was that caught his eye. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps just the sky, the only part of the scenery that matched what he was familiar with - the homes and people he’d grown up around nowhere to be found in Fhirdiad’s grey scenery.

Dimitri so strongly wished he could do something to take that sadness away, even if only a little. To relieve Dedue of his troubles for a day. But he knew he could never truly abate it. Things could never return to how they were. It was true for Dimitri as well, to some extent. But even if he’d lost his father, his stepmother, one of his closest friends… he had so much left. His other friends, far as they were. His...admittedly distant, but still living uncle. His home. His people. Dedue had none. And Dimitri couldn’t help but feel responsible for that pain. Had he and his father not gone to Duscur, the attack would never have occurred. At least, not to the level it had. 

Their attackers would likely have attacked them eventually, somewhere else. Potentially somewhere with fewer people, potentially somewhere with more. He couldn’t say for certain. But he doubted any other place would have led to the same results; the same destruction which far exceeded any of Dimitri’s wildest nightmares. 

No good would come from bringing that up though. Dimitri didn’t want to speak about it, for one. So he left the thoughts in his head, deciding such topics were best for another time.

Dedue wasn’t one to initiate conversation from what Dimitri had gathered so far, so it was up to Dimitri to resume their talk. This time, they spoke of their favorite activities and places. Happy facts, meaningful in their own way.

Especially because they made Dimitri realise how dissimilar the two were, much to his disappointment and fear.

Dedue loved to cook and do anything and everything in the kitchen. His mother had more than a few recipe books that Dedue loved to pull dishes from, from which he’d memorized the steps for making several dozen recipes he was eager to recreate sometime soon. Dimitri had never made a meal or washed a dish in his life. His only experience with a kitchen was running in to ask the cooks for between-meal snacks, the requests only sometimes denied. 

Dedue loved sitting out by the ocean and watching the waves crash up against the shore whenever he was feeling down, the constant motion bringing him peace during calm periods and the huge crashes during storms reminding him of the power of nature in an awe inspiring way. He loved summer for this reason; the warmth of the high sun combined with the cool rush of the water on his skin was near unbeatable. It was a familiar and ever-present sight, and thus one he’d come to treasure. Dimitri, having only seen the ocean a handful of times, much preferred the snow. Winter was thus his favorite season (though snow fell in Faerghus year round, depending on which part you were in), when he would sit by his window and watch the white flakes swirl around on the outside from his warm and cozy spot behind the window, happy when peaceful snowfall led to a hypnotizing scene before him, awed when soft snow turned to a blizzard that turned the whole world white. It was like he’d been swept to some other universe when that happened, as if he’d been swept to some other universe in which everything outside the castle was a strange unknown. 

Dedue loved crafting. He was a blacksmith’s son, Dimitri learned that day, and while he’d helped out with his fair share of weapon making he much preferred making smaller crafts, having spent many a day at his mother or sister’s side embroidering flowers and other little symbols onto scarves and sashes and whatnot. Dimitri had a habit of breaking small things, and had thus given up on all craftmaking at a young age. His strength had a tendency to surge when he was upset, and the frustration of being so bad at the little things tended to trigger that surge and cause him to break whatever small item he held. One memory that stuck out the most was of the time his stepmother had tried to teach him to knit because he enjoyed watching her do it so much, only for him to bend or snap so many needles they ran out in the castle and had to go get more. He felt so terrible for disrupting his stepmother’s day and for destroying the tools she’d gotten used to using he never tried again. All other attempts at making small crafts met their ends in a similar manner.

“I was not aware you had a stepmother,” Dedue said when Dimitri finished his story. “I thought the queen of Faerghus passed away many years ago. Was the marriage recent?”

Dimitri mentally knocked himself over the head. No one outside of the castle was supposed to know Patricia had been his father’s wife. But this was Dedue. And Dedue was his friend, one who would hopefully stay by his side for some time to come, so it couldn’t hurt to tell him.

“You’re correct. The previous queen, my mother, passed away shortly after I was born. She was the last official queen of Faerghus. But several years later my father met my stepmother, Patricia, and took her as his new wife. She wished to stay out of the public eye, however, and so my father honored her wishes by keeping her a secret known only to her and my father’s closest companions,” Dimitri explained.

“I see.” Dedue took in a breath. “But you liked her?”

“Oh I loved her!” Dimitri replied, a fond expression on his face. “Despite our lack of shared blood, she treated me as if I were her own child. Though I dearly wish I could have known my own mother, I am not upset that I was able to have Patricia fill that position for the last few year of-” he swallowed. Why was it so hard to say? “-of her life. She was kind and caring, and always let me know that I was loved. Whenever I was ill, she was the first to come to my side. She always had time to speak to me when I was feeling frustrated or even simply lonely, even if she had been doing something else when I came in to see her. Though I doubtlessly must have frustrated her at times, such as when I broke all of those needles, she never took it out on me. Instead she remained patient and told me she loved me, and that she was glad to have been given the chance to spend time with the son she’d never had. Patricia was a wonderful woman, and the world is lesser for her loss.”

Dedue nodded in understanding. “Hearing what you say of her, it must be. My own mother was similarly caring, though she expressed herself in different ways. I cannot begin to name all the occasions when she took time out of her day to support my sister or I when something had us down. She did give us lectures on occasion, but only when we truly deserved it, and we always grew better from them, no matter how unwanted her words might have felt at the time. In Duscur, it is not as common to express your love in direct words as it is here, I believe. Instead of telling us directly, my mother would show my sister and I her love through her actions. A new scarf after a special accomplishment, an extra portion on our plates after a long day, a trip to the sea when she could see one of us was growing restless… Small actions, only rarely accompanied by the exact words ‘I love you,’ but we knew it all the same.”

Dedue’s expression grew soft as he spoke, slightly dreamy as he reminisced in old memories.

Hah. Old memories. It made them sound like grown men. But Dedue was not yet fifteen, and Dimitri not yet fourteen. They weren’t old enough to have ‘old’ memories. Yet so was the way the world seemed to be going, making old men of teenagers. Was that pretentious to say?

“I’m sorry,” Dimitri whispered. “She sounds like a lovely woman. I wish I could have met her.”

Dedue looked down, soft expression gone in less than a second. “I wish she were still alive.”

“Ah-”

Dimitri had messed up again. He’d said the wrong thing. His heart clenched tightly in his chest. Why could he not go a single conversation without saying something offensive? 

“That is, I am sorry that she is no longer here, as surely you would prefer if she were still with you. And that, were she still alive, I would liked to have met her. But her survival would have certainly taken priority-”

“I understand,” Dedue said, cutting Dimitri off. His voice was even when he continued, not insulting but...not happy either. Dimitri felt worse. “I appreciate the effort, but you do not need to try to perfect every word you say to me. I know you did not mean any harm.”

Dimitri sighed. “Thank you. And-” This time, he cut himself off. He was originally going to follow up with an apology, but with the look Dedue was giving him he could sense Dedue would either follow that up with his own apology, or just tell Dimitri he needn’t make an apology either, since he didn’t need to worry about his words.

A lose-lose situation. Or a neutral-lose situation. Maybe Dedue would appreciate it if he didn’t apologize at all? Then he’d show he understood what Dedue wanted. Right…?

Whatever the case, it was nice hearing a bit about Dedue’s life. Dedue had grown up in such different circumstances than Dimitri had and had countless interesting stories to tell. He was short and to the point while telling them, but the stories were interesting and often exciting nonetheless.

It made Dimitri want to go out and explore the world beyond the castle all the more. He’d have to some day if he was to become a good king. He couldn’t lead a unified and successful kingdom if he knew nothing of the plights and daily life of people who lived outside the small boundaries of the noble territories he’d visited. Even if he could never truly put himself in their shoes, he wanted to hear their stories and try to understand them, so that he might be able to know where their worries came from and properly judge what he could do to abate them. The more people he talked to, the better he would be able to help.

Even without the learning opportunity, it was just nice talking to Dedue. There was something different about talking to him than talking to Sylvain or Felix or Ingrid. Dedue was new, for one. And patient. He didn’t know everything about Dimitri, and he didn’t prematurely interrupt with his own comments about what he assumed Dimitri probably did in the situation (Sylvain), what he should have done for a better result (Ingrid), or what he shouldn’t have done if he wanted to avoid trouble (Felix). He just listened before responding in turn, either with a question for clarification or a fitting story of his own. He respected Dimitri’s boundaries, and Dimitri respected Dedue’s to pay him back. He liked their arrangement. It felt even on both parts. 

Dimitri had just finished telling a story about the time he and Felix had accidentally gotten themselves stuck on the wrong side of a minor avalanche-caused cave-in while playing hide and seek with Glenn when Rodrigue finally entered the room. Dimitri jolted slightly at that, having forgotten Rodrigue was supposed to be joining them. Thankfully neither Dedue nor Rodrigue commented on the motion if they had noticed it.

Rodrigue wore a smile, something impressive after what must have been several hours of drawn out meetings concerning how the next day’s ceremony was to proceed. That was one thing Dimitri wasn’t particularly looking forward to once he ascended the throne, though it was something he would do with pride and devotion once it came to it. Whatever Faerghus needed. The kingdom’s health came before all, his own feelings on long meetings included. They were important, no matter how frustrating some could be when several parties started to butt heads. 

“Good afternoon your highness, Dedue.” He emphasized each name with a nod in its owner’s direction. Then, he looked back to Dimitri. “I’m sorry to break up your conversation, but we’ve finalized tomorrow’s proceedings and what your role is to be, and I’d like to go over it all now so you have some time to memorize it without feeling too stressed.” Then, to Dedue. “If you would like to stay you may, but I fear it would probably be terribly boring. If centuries’ old language and royal proceedings that have hardly been revised in the last several hundred years excite you, then feel free to stick around. But...take it from me, no one I’ve ever met actually likes all that stuff. It’s formality that’s not going away any time soon though, so there’s not much we can do to change it up.” Rodrigue finished with a chuckle, running a hand through his hair.

Dimitri frowned as Rodrigue spoke.  _ He  _ liked the centuries’ old language and proceedings. The formality was a little more than he enjoyed, but he found the history fascinating. Especially when it came to old traditions which had remained largely the same over the ages and analyzing how they had been modified to fit current times. But he didn’t tell Rodrigue this. Might as well let the man have his laugh.

Dedue stood and bowed. “I understand. I will return to my room then, since I have a few things to work on myself.”

Dimitri raised his eyebrows. Dedue was working on something? What? He once again realized that he had no idea what Dedue was doing when the two of them weren’t together. Hopefully it was something enjoyable.

Dimitri bowed again in Dimitri’s direction. “Thank you for the conversation, your highness. I will see you tomorrow.”

The loss of Dimitri’s name from Dedue’s lips stung a little. He was taking Cornelia’s words to heart, then. While some formalities had their place, this was one Dimitri would happily give up. There was no need for close companions to have to shut themselves behind the bars of titles. It created an artificial distance that Dimitri would happily throw away.

Still, Dimitri had told himself that he would try harder to be positive. He’d never feel better if he allowed himself to be dragged down by every negative thought that passed through his head. Even if he didn’t feel particularly happy at the moment he had to put up a pleasant face, so he offered a smile back. The more he faked it, the more likely the feelings were to come true, right? If he smiled for long enough, then perhaps he could convince himself that that feeling was true. “Thank  _ you _ for the conversation. I look forward to speaking again.” That much was true, even if their parting was harder on Dimitri than he’d like to admit.

A slight smile appeared on Dedue’s lips as he left the room, escorted by the knight Dimitiri knew was assigned to Dedue at all times. 

The expression, faint as it was, made Dimitri’s heart skip a beat. Dedue was smiling. Small or not, he was smiling. And so even though Dedue did have to depart, Dimitri’s half-fake smile turned true at the thought that maybe the distance between him and his hopefully soon-to-be friend was not as large as he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, headaches. I mention it in another fic, but even before I came up with this fic I headcanoned that Dimitri's doctor post-Duscur was Cornelia, which is why he has headaches. Given she was plotting to kill him eventually, I figure it would make sense for her to not actually try to properly heal his head wounds, since that might eventually give her the upper hand if he's constantly plagued by head pain...
> 
> Second, Dumb things I checked: whether I should use “so long as” or “as long as”. According to Merriam Webster, “so long as” appeared in the 14th century, a century earlier than "as long as", so "so long as" it is for Dimitri’s speech. I want him to sound slightly formal, and older is more formal to me. Also I study the middle ages + renaissance at uni so finding that stuff out is pretty fun.
> 
> Third: the love thing was inspired by something a friend told me in high school that I've seen mentioned a few times over the years online. In my family, we say I love you all the time. But in her family, and in many cultures around the world, that's not nearly as common. Actions instead of words thing, due to a difference in intimacy and culture. I find that interesting, so included it here.
> 
> Fourth: Felix has a lost item “black iron spur.” Rodrigue is a Holy Knight, and thus is talented in magic. Felix has a budding talent but uh... bane? in reason magic. So I headcanon Glenn was a Dark Knight: mounted like Rodrigue, wielding magic that Felix would later avoid as to not resemble him, and thus a Dark Knight who would have had a black iron spur as per the class design. Do I actually mention he's a dark knight in this chapter? No but I do say black armor so it's relevant. Also the answer to Dimitri's question is not pleasant. The only thing that was brought back to Fraldarius territory was his armor, after all...
> 
> Okay, that's a long note. I mostly make these for myself because I have fun justifying anything and everything I do. Hope you guys are enjoying so far, even though this is pretty slow to be honest. I said I would go in depth, so in depth I have gone. Next chapter will definitely be a lot longer than this one thanks to an extended conversation with Rodrigue, so buckle up for that. Thank you for reading, and please leave a kudos or comment if you have the time!
> 
> Until next time.


	8. Preparation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is ridiculously long. 15,000 words ridiculously long. To go from a 5k chapter to a 15k chapter is a big jump, but the next chapter is probably going to be pretty long too so maybe the increased length is here to stay. It's a day late because I forgot to post yesterday, but hopefully I'll get the next chapter out next Sunday! This chapter... has a lot. Not so much in events that take place, but places that Dimitri's mind wanders to. Things he thinks about, bringing in a lot of the Faerghus childhood friend crew that might not actually appear in this fic in person. They haven't appeared in the 20 or 30k words left in the original draft. Then again, I didn't finish that. But here's another Dimitri and Rodrigue chapter (the latter of which I've learned to love so much more while writing this fic) so without further ado, enjoy.

Rodrigue waited for Dimitri to acknowledge him again before he took the seat that Dedue had occupied. He set down a few sheets of paper. “I apologize for giving you such short notice for this, but a regent has only been appointed once before in the history of Faerghus, and as you know a fair few customs have changed since then. Hence why things were dragged out until noon today even though we should really have finished things before we even held your father’s funeral. Which I once again apologize for.”

Dimitri shook his head. “No need. I understand why you did as you did. It was for the good of the kingdom.”

“Dimitri…” Rodrigue sighed, frowning. He cleared his throat, composing himself. “I have here what you’re expected to do and say. Nothing too long, and most of it has to do with you simply saying you accept the transfer of power to your uncle until you come of age. I’ll be doing the majority of the talking, and thankfully tradition says I get to hold a giant scroll that has the majority of what I’m responsible for saying written on it, so don’t worry about having to learn an entire manuscript’s worth of material before tomorrow.”

He then pushed a few pieces of paper closer to Dimitri. “We’ve come up with a transcript of what exactly you’re meant to say. You won’t be able to read directly from it, unfortunately, but don’t worry too hard about trying to memorize every last word. No one alive has ever heard the official proceedings, so no one other than me and the bishop assisting us will know if you slip up, and even then neither of us will judge you. Giving you so little time… Well, it’s a little late for complaining. Not that that helps anything, does it? Hah, if only. But regardless, just stay confident and let your voice carry across the room. So long as you show an air of power, you will be doing all you really need to do.”

Dimitri nodded as he heard Rodrigue mutter under his breath, “especially with your uncle being the only other one with similar power in the room. Goddess knows he’s never been a good leader.”

Dimitri had to hold back a snort at that. This was no laughing matter. Power in the hands of someone so…

Well, Lambert had done his best to keep Dimitri away from his uncle, so he didn’t have a particularly complete picture of the man. But from what Dimitri had gathered, his grandfather had been beyond relieved when Lambert was born with a crest just a few months after Rufus’ thirteenth birthday, a miracle child the royal family had thought would never come. He’d heard whispers that the court had apparently discussed having his grandfather divorce his grandmother so he could find a younger wife who might bear him another child, seeing as children outside of marriage were not eligible to take the throne unless all potential heirs before them were deceased. But then his father was born. 

And so the whispers went away, their miracle child all the help they’d needed. Both for the crest, and because by then Rufus was already...something that everyone refused to explicitly tell Dimitri, but he could interpret at least some of it from lack of said information. Though apparently Rufus’ personality had worsened after Lambert’s birth, which was somewhat understandable given the kingdom and power he’d been expecting had been immediately transferred to his younger brother as soon as his crest was discovered.

The situation reminded Dimitri a little bit of Sylvain and Miklan, actually. A younger brother with a crest suddenly taking the power and responsibilities that the older brother had thought he’d be inheriting for over a decade. It wasn’t quite the same, though.

Dimitri had never heard anyone say anything particularly good about his uncle. Not that everyone had bad things to say. Most comments were just… neutral. Like he wasn’t a  _ bad _ lord. Itha hadn’t  _ fallen apart _ while he ruled it. The crops had been the  _ same _ as they’d always been beneath him. Comments like that. Nothing ever implying Rufus had exceeded Lambert in any capacity.

Sylvain, on the other hand, insisted that Miklan had always been better than him. According to Sylvain, he just had the crest, whereas Miklan had the lance skills and the sweet talking and the strength that the Gautier heir should’ve possessed. In contrast, the elders Dimitri knew said that Lambert had had both the crest and the personality and abilities to back it, while Rufus was...Rufus.

Dimitri didn’t like it very much when Sylvain said those things. He had a habit of putting himself down whenever he complimented someone else, or whenever he talked about himself at all really, and it didn’t seem right. Plus from what Dimitri had pieced together, Miklan wasn’t very nice to Sylvain either. Sylvain could be a bit frustrating at times, but he was still a good person that Dimitri was happy to have as a friend. So he didn’t think Miklan could be that good a person if he did so many terrible things to Sylvain just because he had a crest. Sylvain didn’t admit to most of those things, nor did Miklan ever, but it wasn’t hard to see what was going on. Sylvain was not nearly as clumsy as someone with so many bruises claimed to be. And he saw the way Miklan treated Sylvain when he thought no one was looking. It wasn’t right. He’d have to figure out some way to bring it up without provoking Miklan into doing anything or harming Sylvain by proxy.

Rodrigue cleared his throat, drawing Dimitri out of his thoughts. “For the ceremony, we had initially planned to have you stand at Rufus’ sde, but we’ll allow you to sit for the most part since your legs have not fully recovered. You will only need to stand when I come to you with the crown, which you will then take and hand to Rufus, with instructions to guard it and the responsibilities associated until you have come of age and are ready to take it back from him. Does that sound reasonable?”

“It does, thank you.” Dimitri responded almost absentmindedly as he picked up the papers and fingered through them, skimming over the words. He paused when his eyes caught on a single word. “I am to end the ceremony with thanks to the Goddess for her protection so far, and a request to for her to guide my uncle and protect myself and Faerghus until I have assumed the throne?”

“Yes. Is something wrong with that?” Rodrigue asked, bringing a hand to his chin.

“...” Dimitri wasn’t sure how to respond.

The Goddess… 

Perhaps he should’ve waited a few days to have his revelation. He couldn’t have stopped the realization from first entering his thoughts, but he could have ignored it until a later period. When it first came to mind that the Goddess had not helped them in Duscur, he could have stopped it there. He could have told himself, ‘no, not now,’ and left the true examination of the evidence until a later time. But he didn’t, and now he was going to suffer for it. Or at the very least feel some sort of discomfort. There was no way to ignore praise for the Goddess while in Faerghus, especially not for someone in his position. Though not every Faerghan citizen followed the teachings of the Church of Seiros, said teachings and reverence for the Goddess were ingrained in nearly all official proceedings in the kingdom. It was the official religion of the state, after all. Not mandated, but so heavily practiced in the kingdom that it had seeped into countless parts of everyday life. 

The Goddess was central to Faerghus’ identity and independence. She was the one who had, according to the old texts, given Faerghus the final burst of power it needed to split from the empire. There was no way Dimitri could remove his praise for her from the ceremony. But how was he supposed to give a convincing speech if he himself didn’t believe the words he was to say? If he knew that his requests would be empty - long winded wasted words to a Goddess that had already abandoned him, bearing no intention to fulfill his requests to any meaningful degree?

To thank the Goddess for the protection she had given them so soon after his family, friends, and soldiers had been slaughtered seemed ridiculous. She hadn’t protected them in the past when they most needed it. So why would she protect them in the future, especially when one of the two people at the helm of the nation asking for her protection knew her past promises of aid were lies? 

To ask her for her protection wouldn’t be merely unpleasant. It would be a lie of his own. A request he made knowing it would never be fulfilled. Either it would go to a being who had never truly existed, or to a deity who did not care to reach out to her people to fulfill it. Wasted breath, wasted time. A lie in front of the people he was sworn to guide in honesty and good conscious. By asking for the protection of a Goddess he did not believe in (at least, not in the way he was supposed to), he would be doing neither.

But Dimitri was working on his mask. His own feelings were nothing compared to the well-being of Faerghus. If he had to present a speech that went against the core of his being, reforged in those all-consuming flames, then he would do it for the sake of his people. To announce he had lost faith in the Goddess would only bring chaos to the nation, who would have to choose between the bloodline that had founded them and the Goddess that had helped. Only one could be right. And whether or not Dimitri’s side was the one that won was irrelevant. He wasn’t going to bring about any such turmoil if he could avoid it.

No matter what pain it brought him, the speech was for the good of the country. He could stomach a lie. He could stew on it after the speech. He’d make it up to them eventually.

Dimitri took a deep breath, putting up the most pleasant smile he could manage. “No, there isn’t,” he told Rodrigue, gathering his thoughts to form an excuse that would abate the man’s worries.. “I was simply surprised that the thanks to the Goddess are to be reserved for such a late point in the ceremony. Given Her prominence and status as the Beginning of both our kingdom and our world, I would’ve thought such thanks would be included at the ceremony’s opening.”

Rodrigue’s expression softened, apparently content with Dimitri’s response. Had he bought the mask? “I see. Ever the concerned prince! Don’t worry, we’ll have the leading bishop come in at the beginning to give the proper rites and ask for the Goddess’ guidance. He’ll also be giving a final prayer for the soul of your father, resting in the Eternal Flames. Did I forget to include that?” He leaned over to the papers he had pushed toward Dimitri to check.

Rodrigue hadn’t forgotten. It was there. Dimitri had once again slipped, darn it all. “Oh, I must’ve skimmed over that part. My apologies.”

“None needed, your highness.”

He went silent after that, allowing Dimitri some time to read through the rest of the papers at a speed where he could fully absorb what was in front of him. But he couldn’t fully concentrate on the words in front of him, because his gaze kept catching on his hands.

They worked perfectly well. He could hold things fine, his fingers moved according to command, he could feel hot and cold contact upon his skin. But from the looks of them, one would assume they were entirely useless. The burn wounds had been healed to closure, but the healing had been unable to completely repair the skin and had left terrible scars that ran across the back of his hands, his palms, and his fingers in uneven splotches. Small indentations and rough bumps alike pepperd both the burns and the otherwise smooth parts of his hands, deep and unpleasant. Like puzzle pieces making up an ugly picture. Not to mention the long streaks of silver where the skiing must have been stripped off when he tripped and slid forward onto small stone shards that had been blasted into the street when the houses nearby had been hit by powerful spells. 

At this point his hands had fewer sections of unblemished skin than discoloration. It was just aesthetic, and not a real issue, but…

“Would it be all right if I wore gloves to the ceremony?” he asked, still looking down at his hands. He clenched and unclenched his fists a few times, testing them. Looking at them reminded him of his weakness. His inability to save more than a single life, his failure to protect his father, his cowardly freeze and then bolt in the face of danger. Nothing good. 

Rodrigue put down the small notebook he’d been looking through for the past few minutes, frowning. “Seeing as you’re the prince, you would normally handle the crown with your bare hands.”

Dimitri licked his lips. “Could we come up with an excuse? Or- a  _ reason _ , really, as excuse isn’t really the right word nor is it appropriate. I mean, we could explain that since it is not yet time for me to wear the crown, I want to keep my hands covered when I pass the crown to my uncle to avoid making skin contact. Normally the monarch passes the crown to his heir and never takes it back, hence why his hands are uncovered. But since I am passing it to my uncle who will serve as regent, and my uncle will later pass it back to me when I take the role of king, would it not make sense to explain that I do not wish to touch it yet, to avoid the misfortune that suggests my time with the crown is over?”

Rodrigue raised an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting chain of thought. I hadn’t really thought of it that way. But if you really want to, it’s your decision, and I’ll follow along with whatever you choose. As the Shield of Faerghus and the Blaiddyd line I’m going to be leading that part of the ceremony, so I’ll add in a little something along those lines if it makes you feel better. Or maybe even that exactly. You have a great way with words, Dimitri.”

“You needn’t praise me for that. But thank you, it would.”

“Then it will be done. I’ll ask for some to be brought for you tomorrow morning with the rest of your ceremonial wardrobe. I’m sure the tailor can make up a matching pair before morning.”

From there the conversation turned to the intricacies of the ceremony. For some reason, despite his normal fascination with such rituals and historical backgrounds, Dimitri couldn’t bring himself to feel excited.

The ceremony would begin with the highest ranking priest in Faerghus, the bishop who oversaw the Fhirdiad cathedral, leading those present in prayer. First would come a prayer for remembrance and safe passage to King Lambert, alongside thanks to the Goddess for assuring Dimitri’s survival. Next came requests for her favor and protection until it came time for Dimitri to ascend to the throne, so that Faerghus might enjoy a time of peace and prosperity despite the turmoil that had threatened to overturn the kingdom. Normally the archbishop would have traveled to Fhirdiad to participate in the crowning and lead the prayers and calls to the Goddess, but as the upcoming ceremony was only to appoint the regent who bore no cret and thus was not ‘favored by the Goddess’ as the archbishop’s speech always emphasized, she would not be attending. 

It was a slight relief, actually. He didn’t think he could fool someone as important and totally devoted as the archbishop into thinking he still wholly loved the Goddess as much as he was expected to. 

Not to mention she was uncannily skilled at seeing through people, from what he had heard. She had come to Fhirdiad for the celebration and blessing that was held following the discovery of his crest, and had visited a handful of times during his childhood, but he didn’t remember the encounters. All he could remember was catching a few glimpses of her on one of his father’s occasional visits to Garreg Mach, the woman imposing in a way that had kept his eyes to the floor rather than to her face. There was just something about her. Some aura she had that kept people in awe of her but aso unsettled Dimitri deep down, in some unnamable way.

The archbishop wasn’t to be mentioned in the ceremony though, so Dimitri let his thoughts drift to the actions that would follow the opening prayers.

Next came the naming of the former ruling monarchs of Faerghus, and a (supposedly brief, though it was bound to last nearly an hour) retelling of the Kingdom’s most important moments, beginning with Loog’s accomplishments and ending with Lambert’s subjugation of the southern part of Sreng. It was to be followed by a reminder of Blaiddyd’s part in the War of Heroes nearly a thousand years ago, and how they were grateful the blessing he received from the goddess still followed the royal bloodline. A line which was bound to be awkward given the man being given the power held no such blessing.

But Dimitri would be there.

Dimitri would be their blessed figure, their face to gawk at. An excuse to remind people of why they were not to oppose the royal family (the strength of blaiddyd, ever active even when their crest did not flash before them, strong enough to unintentionally break knitting needles and practice swords and human bone alike) as well as why they should revere it (the blessing of the goddess, so favored as to be one of only a dozen to bear a matching weapon).

Rodrigue, having finished the history of the Blaiddyd line, would then move on to explain what duties the king, or in this case regent, held for his nation. The regent’s duties were much the same as the king’s. He would meet with the court to discuss the course the kingdom should take. He could and would declare war when he deemed it necessary. He could raise a person’s status if he saw fit, just as he could strip status from those he found were no longer worthy of their title. The things he could not do were few. But the most important of them all was that he could not fulfill any duty relating to crests or the Goddess.

When it came time for any of the religious functions the monarch was to perform, Dimitri would have to step in. As he lacked the Goddess’ blessing, he was not allowed to fully participate in some of the religious holidays that occurred throughout the year. He could give the associated speeches in some lesser cases, but when it came to the actual actions, such as kneeling in front of the Altar of Farraén with one hand on the heart and one on the stone, or cutting a finger to give a drop of blood to the wind on the anniversary of the end of the War of Heroes, Dimitri would have to step in instead.

Dimitri wasn’t particularly happy about that. Five years of serving as a religious figurehead until he came of age, watching as his uncle did whatever he wanted with Faerghus. Five years of being unnecessary except to serve in a role he did not believe in.

Although, that wasn’t guaranteed to happen. Maybe he would have a turn around. One sudden night of crisis over his feelings for Goddess didn’t decide the course the rest of his life would take. Maybe he would be so moved by the bishop’s words the next morning that he would break down that night in fervent prayer, begging the Goddess for her forgiveness for his short lapse in faith because he’d realized the error in thoughts. If he could lose all faith in one night, maybe he could regain it.

(or maybe he just told himself that. all his life he’d looked up to her. what reason did he have to live, did he have to do good, if not for her? to act according to the goddess’ will and desires had so often been presented as the grandest reason for his existence. but if there was no goddess whose will he was to follow, then who did he live for? who was he meant to serve, what was he meant to accomplish?

…

well. it was simple, really. faerghus. he would just have to follow a set of laws he could believe in. he could live for a principle, rather than a deity. his actions would be carried out for the good of his people in hopes of elevating their quality of life, rather than for the good of himself in hopes of elevating himself in the eyes of the goddess. 

that was a good reason to live, right? to serve - not for some deity he had never seen and who had never aided him in return, but for a people he could watch prosper, and who he knew his actions would benefit. lifting others up would lift himself up. and even if he himself never saw any benefit from his actions, so long as others benefitted, then that was worth it, was it not?)

There was no point in thinking about such things any longer. Going back to the matter over and over again wasn’t changing his opinion on the matter. He would just have to hope he would come to some new revelation during the ceremony or content himself with the conclusions he’d come to.

With that decided, he asked Rodrigue to continue with his summary of the ceremony’s course. He did.

After listing the regent’s duties, it would be time for the crowning. The previous and only other time there had been a regent in Faerghus’ history, he had been given the queen’s crown rather than the king’s. But apparently Rufus had thrown some sort of fit over having a woman’s crown put on his head (what was wrong with that, anyway? women could be just as powerful, if not more than men, so dimitri saw no reason to feel insulted by the motion), so he was to wear the king’s.

Not that the “King’s” or “Queen’s” crowns were their actual names. 

The ruler of Faerghus and wearer of the king’s crown was whoever had the crest of Blaiddyd. Back when both major and minor crests had appeared at the same time in their family, whoever bore the major crest, and was older in the rare case two heirs had major crests, would inherit the crown. It didn’t matter what that person’s gender was. The names had just come into popularity because the major figures in their family line, Loog and Blaiddyd, had both been male. Lambert, the previous crest-bearing ruler, had also been male. The crest-queens of Faerghus were fewer in number than their male counterparts, and thus they were often forgotten or pushed aside. Still, they existed, and under them the kingdom had prospered. Thus the “king’s crown” was actually named the Crown of Blaiddyd, while the “queen’s crown” was actually named the crown of the Consort.

Rufus probably wouldn’t like wearing something called the crown of the Consort either. 

The more Dimitri learned of his uncle the more he felt the man was acting a bit immature. But he couldn’t tell that to the man’s face - that would be rude, and immature on his own part. Kindness, even in the face of frustration. That would be his new mantra. 

He hadn’t heard about his uncle in months, now that he thought about it. He supposed he should feel upset that his uncle hadn’t visited him since the Tragedy. They were each other’s last living relatives (...if the rumors about illegitimate children were only rumors and nothing more…), so one would think his uncle would want to make sure his only nephew was doing all right. But he wasn’t upset in the slightest. In truth, he felt nothing. And if he did feel anything, then it was a hint of relief.

He glanced back to Rodrigue, who had resumed looking at that little notebook of his, oblivious to Dimitri’s thoughts. 

Rufus hadn’t come to see Dimitri a single time. But Rodrigue had come daily while he was awake, and frequently if not also daily when he’d been unconscious. Rodrigue was being the much better uncle of the two. 

He wondered if Rufus’ lack of appearances was Rodrigue’s doing. Not in any sort of spiteful way - just in the way of Rodrigue knowing the two had never particularly enjoyed each other’s company, and looking out for Dimitri. Making sure he didn’t have to spend time with a person who most likely would’ve rather been anywhere else if he’d been forced to sit in a room with an injured child he’d only exchanged words with a dozen or so times.

Then again, since Rufus didn’t really care for him, staying away was likely Rufus’ own decision whether or not anyone else tried to stop him. Rodrigue was probably just filling the hole.

Rodrigue would also fill another hole in the normal crowning ceremony. He would be the one to hand the Crown of Blaiddyd to Dimitri when the time came, which Dimitri would receive in hands covered by navy gloves that Rodrigue promised would be waiting for him in the morning. Then Dimitri was to put the crown on his uncle’s head as Rufus kneeled before him, reciting lines similar to Rodrigue’s about how he was giving permission for his uncle to carry out the king’s duties until Dimitri was of age and ready to retrieve said duties and crown. Once he finished his lines and passed on the crown, he would then take a moment to recite silent prayers that Faerghus would still be standing once that time came. Not an official part of the ceremony, but something he saw himself doing nonetheless. To whom he would pray he didn’t know. The world. The Flames. Whoever would listen, even if not the Goddess.

Such ceremonies were fond of repetitive actions and information, Dimitri had realized over the years. Pray to the Goddess, move to the next section, pray again. Explain the duties of the king, give a few short words, explain again. Repetition that dragged things out, making them more official. As though the more you said them, the more real they became. But that was fine. Normality, regularity, repetition. Dimiti had always kept to a strict schedule over the years, partly enforced by the duties that were set out for him and partly by his own choice. It was calming to do things in that way.

Once the crowning was over, those in the throne room would disperse for a brief recess before gathering once again in the central hall for a grand feast with the heads of all the noble families of Faerghus. Or rather, however many actually managed to attend. 

Rodrigue warned Dimitri that it was very likely they would only see eighty percent attendance at best due to the conflicts that had come up in several places across the kingdom following news of the king’s death and the following actions taken in Duscur, meaning some lords wouldn’t be able to make it as they either worked to bring those conflicts under control or found themselves unable to make it in the capital in time due to road blockages that had been set up after the Tragedy to look for any people who might be trying to escape Duscur.

Dimitri must have made a face at that, because Rodrigue immediately followed up his statement with a comment that such blockages were in the process of being taken down in light of Dimitri’s new orders.

(Or Rufus’ new orders, as the official statement read. But somehow word had gotten out that DImitri had had at least some degree of influence on the reduction of force in Duscur, leading to confusion over what powers Rufus held and which fell to Dimitri. No one had ever lived with a regent. The debate over whether it was Rufus or Dimitri who had called the shots was something whispered across Faerghus, and Rufus wasn’t very happy about it. Rodrigue promised he hadn’t said a word, which Dimitri believed. An official statement had been made to the public declaring Dimitri’s awakening the day after he first regained full consciousness, so it was likely that the people had just made the connection between Dimitri’s awakening and the sudden change in actions regarding Duscur, assuming he was the one to request the end of the violence and major withdrawals from the region. 

It didn’t matter much to Dimitri who was credited with the action so long as the people of Faerghus believed the decision was made with a clear mind (and thus done because the decision maker believed the people of Duscur did not to be attacked with such force, and were innocent…). But it made Rodrigue uneasy, worried as he was about further attacks on Dimitri’s life. The people he would normally trust to do his investigation were still back in Fraldarius territory and he didn’t want to risk a letter being intercepted, so for the moment his investigation was on hold, meaning his anxiety was high, not that he let it show.

Besides the debate over the one with true power over Faerghus, there was also conflict arising between those who thought Dimitri (or the decision maker. but most of the debaters in this case knew who’d really given that order) was being too lenient and those who thought he wasn’t being lenient enough. That he wasn’t honoring the memory of his father and maintaining the strong hand and pride of Faerghus because of his request that the remaining people of Duscur be let free, despite their grave attacks on the royal family and so many strong young Faerghan soldiers. That he should have been pushing for more action, not less because he had a duty to punish those that had hurt Faerghus, and that he should have allowed the knights to finish carrying out that duty. 

Lambert had scoffed when Rodrigue mentioned that part, standing at the window once again, staring out at the city sky. He looked so different in daylight. Softer, in a way. Like he was less of a threat with the way the sunlight streamed in from the window and hit him in an even fashion, nothing like the way the light of the fires in Duscur had illuminated his body in all the wrong ways. One light source, one direction. Light on one side, shadow on the other. Constant instead of dancing.

But all that meant was that he looked all the more real. When the shadows on his father’s body flickered, when his clothes were torn, when the ash coated his face, it was so much easier to tell he wasn’t real. Not because he looked fake; no, he still could’ve been a living, breathing person with how he looked when he appeared the way he had in the final minutes of his life. Instead, it was because he looked shocking. Lambert had never appeared so dirty or disheveled in front of Dimitri before that day. So when he appeared before Dimitri looking as though he had just fought a battle or been swept up in some wave of chaos, it made DImitri pause. And in that moment of pause, he’d realize his father was fake. Not because he looked it, but because of a mental check. It was part of why he kept accidentally talking to the phantom even though he’d known for days the man was dead; it took his mind a few seconds to realize the man in front of him couldn’t possibly be there, and even then only when it was prompted to do so. Usually only when someone else pointed it out, unfortunately.

This time was different. There, standing in front of the window, something wasn’t right. 

Lambert had no reflection. 

The light hit his skin as if he were a living man. He had a shadow trailing behind him as if he were a living man. His chest rose and fell as if he were a living, breathing man. 

But as he stared out at the window, nothing stared back at him. And that relieved Dimitri immensely. His mind could play tricks on him by conjuring phantoms of the dead, but it couldn’t do it perfectly. As real as his phantoms looked there were still ways to tell them apart from the living, even if they were hard to find. One of Dimitri’s newest, greatest fears was that someday someone close to him might die and he might not know it, talking to a phantom who he thought to still be alive because he did not know the difference without being informed of their death. But if these specters were imperfect…

Lambert scoffed again. Whether it was because he was so offended by Rodrigue’s statement or disappointed with Dimitri’s thoughts, Dimitri did not know. In either case, Lambert’s previously neutral expression morphed into a bitter sneer. 

“They say you have to honor my memory, a task you have failed so far? That you have a duty to eliminate the people of Duscur to do so for me? I suppose they aren’t wrong when they say you have a duty to avenge me or when they bring up your inaction to this point. But killing the Duscur won’t help you fulfill that duty. It would be a waste of time first and foremost, not to mention an insult to that memory of me. Your duty is to track down and kill the true culprits first and foremost. Once you’ve done so you can call in the army to form its blockades and begin capturing the whelps, bringing them in first for questioning and then for revenge. Not the people of Duscur, but those whose heads hang low with guilt. Then you can honor my memory and carry out your duty. You will make them suffer for what they’ve done.”

Dimitri, kept himself from responding aloud, but did direct a silent ‘yes’ in his father’s direction. He would make them pay. Of course. It was only deserved. 

Then he shifted his focus back to Rodrigue, who had either missed Dimitri’s lapse in attention or was polite enough not to point it out.)

With the overall contents of the ceremony covered, Rodrigue suggested the two of them start going over what Dimitri would have to say. Unlike Rodrigue he would be provided no aids to remember his lines, so he had to have everything memorized beforehand. Dimitri agreed, and they spent the next couple of hours reviewing and revising speeches as need be. 

During their revisions they also went over what was to happen if Rufus were to mess something up. (Based on his track record with pre-written statements Rodrigue didn’t have much confidence in the man, he told Dimitri, though he asked Dimitri not to spread that comment around. Dimitri agreed to do so, having heard similar things from his father, though mostly as a joke.)

Next was the emergency plan that had been created in case another attack was launched. They had been caught by surprise in Duscur, and while the castle guard would be out in far higher number than usual which would hopefully ward off any would-be assassins, it was better to be safe than sorry. As such, the only four who knew the specifics of the plan were the four who were to be most involved. The knights assigned to guard the ceremony had their own complex orders and set of possible responses to various attack methods, but only four knew everything including their own parts. The ‘ceremonial’ sword that Dimitri was to wear would be fully sharpened, hidden in its overly decorated sheath as to avoid suspicion. Rodrigue would stay by his side at all times, bearing both his own visibly dangerous sword and the Aegis shield. Gustave would thus normally have been the one appointed to guard Rufus, but he had apparently disappeared once it was confirmed that DImitri would survive. He had been among the first round of reinforcements to show up after the attack in Duscur was launched. Upon realizing he was too late to save anyone but Dimitri and seeing the grave state Dimitri was in, he was overcome by such intense guilt that he’d not said more than a few sentences to anyone until he gave his resignation and disappeared to a location none could find. As such, another general that had worked closely with Lambert would be taking his spot, ready to guard Rufus (and Dimitri) at a moment’s notice should hostile persons be spotted.

Escape routes had been secured. Every possible situation the guard could come up with had been accounted for. The final route was known only to Rodrigue and Gustave’s replacement, Elias, in case there was a traitor in their midst.

Worst case scenario, if Rodrigue was incapacitated, Areadbhar would apparently lie in wait somewhere along the escape route for Dimitri to take hold of to defend himself.

Rodrigue and Dimitri sincerely hoped it would not come to that.

Both because they wished to avoid any further violence. Dimitri because he didn’t know what he would do it he lost Rodrigue too, and because with the current state his body was in he didn’t know if he’d be able to properly wield the weapon. If walking for a few minutes could make him start to breath hard ,what would happen if he had to fight? If it came down to it, he’d fight with everything he had. It didn’t matter if his ankles ached or his hands bled or his heart felt as though it would beat right out of his chest. He’d do what he had to survive.

But he hoped it didn’t come to that. He desperately, desperately hoped it did not come to that again. He did not want anyone else to throw down their lives for his sake.

That was the last they spoke of the ceremony. Dinner had been brought in while they spoke, and just like lunch and breakfast and every other meal Dimitri had had since the Tragedy, it had no taste. Nothing but a faint hint of ash, which Dimitri knew to be nothing more than a trick of his mind. Cornelia had seemed unconcerned when he mentioned the issue to her, saying not to worry and that it would return in time. He hoped it would, as eating was an unpleasant chore otherwise. It was hard to stomach anything when nothing was appetizing. 

A few candles had also been lit when the food was brought in, as the light was fading and Rodrigue wanted to continue going over the papers which would be impossible to read with only moonlight to light the room. He’d asked Dimitri’s permission first, which Dimitri granted. It was just a candle. A candle wasn’t dangerous. It was fine. And while his gaze caught on the nearest candles more than once while they ate, he managed to keep his eyes off of it for the most part. Though he felt somewhat uncomfortable, the discomfort was manageable. He couldn’t go the rest of his life without seeing fire. He’d get back to normal, little by little.

At some point during the meal, Dimitri commented on how he couldn’t wait until he was allowed out of his room again so he could take his meals in the garden or on the top balcony or in the dining room like he normally did. His room wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was starting to get stale. He was getting a little tired of eating in bed, as much as the thought might have horrified the Dimitri from five months ago.

Rodrigue chuckled a bit at that, assuring Dimitri it would take no time at all. He’d be let out for the ceremony the next day after all, and after that there was really no stopping him. Besides, he said, he would be happy to join Dimitri for dinner the following night in any one of those places once the ceremony and the afternoon banquet were over. Nothing had been planned for the evening in light of Dimitri’s condition (not that that was the official reason given. but it was obvious why there was no evening ball or other celebration), so he was free to do whatever he liked.

Dimitri responded with a smile, thinking of what he’d like to do. They could invite Dedue to join them, for one. In the smaller family dining room, he could sit facing the windows as he always did. Across from him would be Rodrigue, who would take up the guest spot, and-

Dimitri’s face fell.

Rodrigue picked up on the change in mood immediately. He asked what was wrong, eyebrows drawn together and a frown on his face.

“How long will you be staying here?” Dimitri replied, much more slowly than he’d spoken for his list of described dinner locales.

Rodrigue had a puzzled expression. “Only a few more weeks at most, to help Rufus settle into his position and to give Elias some time to pick up the duties Gustave has left behind. I would love to stay longer, but I unfortunately must attend to my own territory and will have to return there to do so. Why? If you’re worried about dealing with Rufud, you can always send me a letter and I’ll respond as soon as I receive it. If you want, we can even come up with a little code that we could use if you want me to come up with some sort of excuse for you to get out of Fhirdiad and visit me. A hunting trip, perhaps.”

“That’s not it.” Dimitri wrung his hands, listening as his knuckles popped. The sound and feeling were oddly pleasing. “Dealing with my uncle will be a change of pace, certainly. But while speaking of dinner… I realized it will soon be very empty in the dining room or out in the garden. My normal dining companions are gone, you see.” His voice cracked during those final words, betraying his wish to keep a brave face. 

Rodrigue’s jaw dropped, eyes widening. “Your highness-” he took a sharp breath, then resumed speaking in a much softer tone, expression softening. “Dimitri. Listen to me. I know it will be hard- that it  _ is _ hard being on your own, especially after having spent so much of your life with your father and stepmother only a few minutes’ call away. But you’re a strong young man. In time, you’ll learn to live with it, or find others to fill in that space. 

“Even after I leave, you won’t be entirely alone. You have Dedue, don’t you? I know you two haven’t known each other long, but you get along in a way I’ve only seen you be with a handful of others and I’m sure that bond will only grow. I’m sure he would be happy to stay with you, whether at dinner or otherwise.”

Dimitri tried not to scoff. A small huff still managed to escape his lips. “Happy to stay and eat with me because he likes me, or because doing so keeps him alive?”

A sigh from Rodrigue. “While I’m certain he would enjoy the latter, I doubt the first isn’t in consideration. He lights up when he’s around you, and comes out of his shell much more than he does when around others. I try to be friendly, but he’s much more comfortable around you than anyone else.”

“As would anyone whose survival is being ensured by maintaining appearances of friendship.”

“As would anyone happy to spent time with another person, regardless of how that affects their survival. As I said, that is a benefit of your relationship, not the reason for it. Please don’t be so hard on yourself. That wouldn’t make Dedue  _ or _ me happy.”

Dimitri looked away from Rodrigue back toward his window, choosing not to give a verbal response. He understood what Rodrigue was saying, but actually believing it… 

Something in his heart nagged at him when he tried to allow himself such thoughts. The idea that another person might like him so readily seemed almost forbidden. Dimitri had hardly given Dedue anything at all. Not compared to what he’d taken away from the other teen. He’d failed so often, and with such terrible repercussions. To even think good had come from that felt unacceptable. To think such things brought feelings of guilt and shame, like he was a bad person for even considering them. Another corner of his mind told him that there was nothing wrong with allowing himself to be happy for himself. But then that little bit in his heart told him he should feel guilty for thinking that, and so the only solution seemed to be to accept the guilt and move on. 

For Dedue to think highly of Dimitri when even Dimitri couldn’t think highly of himself was unlikely at best. It was probably just that being with Dimitri was better than the alternative. All things considered, when nearly everyone who spoke to you was cruel, the person who was only sort of okay probably seemed like a saint.

Dimitri glanced back to Rodrigue. The man was still looking at him, awaiting an answer. Not asking again, because that would be rude, but waiting. Letting Dimitri take his time.

And so Dimitri relented, nodding to show he agreed. Not to the extent Rodrigue implied, but somewhat. Dedue probably didn’t hate him. That didn’t mean Dimitri didn’t still have a lot of work cut out for him before he really earned Dedue’s friendship, though.

Rodrigue accepted the concession, rising to his feet and moving the chair away with a gentle push of the heel. He’d taken to avoiding sudden movements and loud noises around Dimitri the last few days. No more quick hands to pat his shoulder, no more popping in the doorway from the hall without a sound until his shout of “good morning!” Just slow, quiet actions. 

It was slightly irritating, being treated like he was so fragile. Frustrating, more like it. Like he was going to break at the slightest noise or the smallest motion. Rodrigue’s actions came from the heart, and Dimitri knew he should appreciate them, but that didn’t mean they were desired. He’d much rather Rodrigue act like everything were normal. The more he changed his ways to please Dimitri or to avoid setting him off, the more Dimitri knew something was wrong. Still, Rodrigue acted as he did because he wanted the best for Dimitri, and so it meant that while Dimitri wasn’t totally happy with them (though he still was in some way, because he definitely didn’t enjoy being sent into another one of the attacks where the world slipped way into a haze of terror), he also felt too bad to ask for him to stop.

“If you would like,” Rodrigue began, giving Dimitri a very gentle pat on the shoulder (so much so he could hardly feel it, the gentleness seemingly more out of fear of disturbing him than a desire to show care), “I could send for Felix to come visit during my last few days here. I’m sure he’s anxious to see you after everything that’s happened. Goddess knows that boy has always clung to your side like his life depends on it. I imagine it would be nice for you to see an old friend as well.”

Anxious to see him? Or anxious to see Rodrigue? Besides…

“Are you sure he would really like to come?” Dimitri murmured, eyes on anywhere but Rodrigue.

Would Felix really want to see the person who had stolen his brother from him? The person who had made it so his brother would never again be able to play with or tease or even be near Felix again? Glenn and Felix had always been close. Sometimes Felix and Rodrigue butt heads, and Glenn and Rodrigue even more so, but Glenn and Felix? For all Rodrigue and Lambert and Sylvain and everyone else liked to joke that Felix followed Dimitri along like he was his lifeline, Felix was just as close to Glenn. He just didn’t cling so tightly because he knew he’d see Glenn in the morning, while his time with Dimitri was only ever for a few short hours or days. Any second lost that could have been spent with Dimitri wouldn’t be made up for months, sometimes. Any seconds lost that could have been spent with Glenn would be made up the next day, or in a few weeks if he was sent off somewhere. 

At least, when they had been younger. Once Glenn turned fifteen and was knighted, the distance between him and Felix increased considerably. They still saw each other pretty frequently though. And when Glenn took his place among Dimitri’s guard, that made Felix’s visits to Dimitri and vice versa all the more precious seeing as he’d get to be around both at once. 

However, Dimitri’s visits would no longer bring Glenn. Instead, Dimitri had taken him away forever. He’d torn out a piece of Felix’s heart, really, and there was nothing he could do to return it. Frankly, he’d be surprised if Felix didn’t hate him now. If he did, it would certainly be deserved.

Rodrigue crossed his arms, leaning back onto one leg. “I don’t see why he wouldn’t. You two have always been close, and I’m sure he’s more worried about you now than he’s ever been. And believe me, he gets pretty worried sometimes. Don’t tell him that though. He’ll deny it to you, and then give me an earful later about it! I’m sure he must be endlessly pestering his uncle with questions about your condition and the few letters I’ve sent back containing information that hasn’t been revealed to the general public. Nothing you need to concern yourself over though. I ran off in quite a hurry after hearing about the attack, and so little was known then, so I wanted to send something to reassure them and let them know the timeline of when I expected to return.” Rodrigue hummed for a second. “Perhaps I should have taken Felix with me when I left so you could have had some companionship those first few days. But you have been getting along pretty well with Dedue, and if Felix were here he might have taken that attention instead and lessened your initial relationship, so it seems to have been a good choice in the end.”

“What  _ did _ you know when you left?” Had he heard only that there had been an attack? Had he learned of Lambert’s death? Did he know what happened to Glenn, to his own son, or did he only find out after arriving in Fhirdiad and talking to the hysterical Gustave?

“I knew that the royal family had been attacked, and that the entirety of the guard assigned to them had been slaughtered. Lambert’s survival was unknown, and yours was questionable. But you were at least named to be one of only a few survivors at the time, alongside a few of the first round of reinforcements, all of whom were in critical condition. By the time I made it to your location, you were the only one still alive, the rest having succumbed to their wounds.” Rodrigue took a deep breath. He’d closed his eyes while he spoke, eyebrows drawn together in a show of regret.

Something about that explanation rang wrong in Dimitri’s gut. 

“You knew that the entire royal guard was dead,” Dimitri echoed, voice flat. 

That had certain implications he didn’t like. Certain people it meant Rodrigue already knew were dead before his departure.

“That is correct,” Rodrigue confirmed, voice normal as though he saw nothing wrong with the statement. 

Dimitri pressed on. “What did you say to Felix when you left? How much of what you’d learned did you tell him before your departure?”

“He was there when the message was delivered, so he heard just as much as I did. I immediately sent for a horse to be prepared and rushed to put on proper riding attire so that I might arrive as soon as possible, which meant we didn’t get to have much of a conversation about what we’d learned. However, in my limited time I did explain that the reason for my swift departure was because I needed to go to ensure your survival so the day was not a total loss. Our duty as men of Fraldarius is to ensure the continuation of the Blaiddyd line, so I had to get to you as fast as possible, and would send for him if necessary once I had gotten a grip of the situation and things calmed down.”

“And what did you say of Glenn?”

Dimitri could hardly believe Rodrigue had the audacity to appear shocked.

Yet the man did, and he said nothing, only gaping without a word. Trying to come up with some way to make his faults sound less than they were, no doubt.

“You were told that the entire royal guard had been slaughtered. You had to have known that included Glenn. That he had died. That he had been murdered. What did you say to Felix about that? What words of comfort or reassurance or whatever it was did you give him? Or did you run off without so much as word about him?”

Despite his questions, Dimitri was dreading the response. An angry sort of dread. He already knew the answer to his questions, only needed the confirmation, and so he asked anyway.

Rodrigue must have known Dimitri already knew what he was going to say. At first he opened his mouth as if he were about to protest, to try to come up with some sort of pleasant excuse, but he silently closed it as he had done just a short time before. He had spent the entire conversation up to that point with his eyes on Dimitri, whether Dimitri looked back to him or elsewhere. Now, though, he finally looked away. Revealing his guilt as his eyes drifted to the floor. “We did not speak of Glenn. Your safety and survival took higher priority, and I had no time-”

Something inside Dimitri finally cracked, and he couldn't help it as the rage bubbled up and the words spilled out, condemning Rodrigue for his neglect and his short-sightedness and his overvaluing of dimitri’s life as if he was all important and worth so much more than any other life when really he had never matched up to glenn or his father or any of the guards who had been with them in any way but having too much luck on that day as to survive when the others did not if only to bear the burden of their sacrifices and bring them justice some day-

“No time to reassure to reassure your son everything would be okay? To give him words of comfort after someone suddenly burst into his home with a message that his king and countrymen had been slaughtered, countrymen who undoubtedly included his brother? Felix is no idiot. He had to have known what the ‘slaughter of the entire guard’ assigned to the royal family meant. He had to have known that Glenn was dead and gone, and yet you said  _ nothing _ to him of it? You only spoke of helping  _ me _ ?”

Rodrigue coughed. “Your highness, we’ve been over this already. Glenn’s duty was to protect your family with his life. From the moment he was born, he was promised to protect the Blaiddyd heir. He knew from childhood what his duty was, and the risks associated. Though it was not...ideal for him to have died doing his duty, it was what came to pass, and such a thing was not entirely unexpected. Not desired, but always a possibility that he had been briefed on and long since accepted.”

Dimitri’s left eye twitched. He grit his teeth, trying to keep all of his inner swirling growing aching feelings from bursting out at once in a stream of words he knew he would regret. The ones that did make it out were better, but charged nonetheless. 

“And why was it not ideal,” he asked, voice low. “Because you love him and miss him and he was your son, or because it means he will no longer be able to fulfill his duty of protecting the Blaiddyd line, thus having ‘failed’ his job prematurely?”

“While the latter is true-”

“The latter should not be a consideration!” Finally the anger burst through and Dimitri slammed his fists on the table they’d been eating at, fingers digging into the wood.

A split second before he made contact a faint light flashed across the room, and he watched as Rodrigue’s eyes widened before the table exploded underneath Dimitri’s fingertips, the contents flying across the room as the wood splintered and the supports broke into pieces, the remnants of the table and the contents that had been on top scattering across the floor.

Oh Flames, he’d accidentally activated his crest and destroyed a table.

A rare curse spilling from his lips, Dimitri launched himself from his bed and onto his knees in a hurry to keep the papers they’d been going over from being damaged by the water spilling from the shattered glasses that used to contain them. Wood pieces dug into his legs from the other side of the loose pants he wore, and he was fairly certain more than a few splinters had embedded themselves in the soles of his bare feet, but he ignored the slight pain in favor of grabbing the papers and the mold for the wax seal that had been next to them. While most of the documents were simple notes that had been made up that morning and would not be missed were they to be damaged, a few were centuries-old texts that Rodrigue had borrowed from the archives and others were official papers that Dimitri still needed to sign to give his official support to Rufus. The first group wouldn’t be much of a loss at all and the third would be a bother to redo, but the second was irreplaceable, and thus Dimitri moved to save them as quickly as he could.

He was so focused on gathering the papers that he didn’t see Rodrigue’s hand coming toward him until he felt himself being pulled back, Rodrigue attempting to drag him away from where the table had initially stood. Dimitri jerked his head to the side Rodrigue was on, trying to explain that he didn’t care about injuries and he’d rather the papers could be saved, because a heal spell could always be used to fix him while nothing would be able to fix the documents if they were lost.

Then out of the corner of his eye he spotted something.

Dropped his gaze up from Rodrigue down to the floor between them.

Realized the candles had fallen off the table when it had been destroyed.

The lit candles.

Which were on their sides.

And surrounded by broken wood and dry paper, which had caught fire, the flames avoiding the water around them as they crawled across the flammable materials to spread outwards, toward the bed, toward Rodrigue, toward Dimitri.

Oh

_ O h _

(oh goddess oh flames oh whoever would listen they were coming for him the fires were going to claim him just as they’d claimed his father and stepmother and glenn and they were getting closer only inches away from his face and he could feel the heat creeping toward him as it threatened to burn his skin off to scorch his hair to melt his bones to make it so there was nothing left at all and it was suffocating him as his lungs constricted and the smoke surrounded him and the world closed in making everything so dark and unpleasant and oh flames what had he done to deserve this he thought he had finally escaped was this his punishment for running away that first time-)

.

.

.

By the time the world came back into focus Dimitri was on the other side of the room, wrapped in a blanket with his hands gripping his head and fingernails digging into his scalp, knees pulled tight to his chest as he haved and choked in unsteady breaths, saying something in between a sob and the word ‘no’ over and over again until his throat ached and he could hardly speak anymore. Rodrigue was in front of him, trying to pull Dimitri’s hands away from his head to no avail. Dimitri saw the man doing it but didn’t feel like he could do anything in response. He couldn’t pull away. He couldn’t loosen his grip. He was just  _ there _ , but even then not really. It was hard to think. No. He couldn’t think. Rodrigue. No. Pain. He could think of that. But it wasn’t thinking. Just feeling. No.

It felt weird, being in that corner. Claustrophobic for one. Like nothing was real. Like there was some commotion on the other side of the room, but Dimitri couldn’t concentrate on anything other than what was directly in front of him and the pressure in his head and the images of Duscur and the dead and the destruction about him-

He couldn’t focus. He couldn’t make himself do much of anything. It didn’t feel real. It didn’t even feel like he was in control of himself. It just felt bad. Someone else was forcing his body to shake and to stiffen and to grip and he couldn’t stop them. All he could do was watch as his body panicked and his racing mind was trapped inside.

Then Rodrigue moved from failing to pry Dimitri’s hands from his head to giving him a hug, and Dimitri found his throat opening and his consciousness resting back into his body, the hoarse whispers of ‘no’ dying away into some crackling not-words until he went silent. Not with enough control to say anything else. But at least with enough control not to say anything at all.

He didn’t fully know why he was crying, tears streaming down his face without any real sadness attached to them. Panic, maybe. He didn’t know why everything hurt so much either. His head, his arms, his hands, his legs, his chest, his everything. He just knew that Rodrigue was holding him tight and gently rocking him back and forth telling him that everything was going to be all right and he had to reason to worry, that it wasn’t his fault and it was already gone, that they had already taken care of it (what was  _ it _ ?) so he could relax, so he could take a deep breath and start over.

Words still didn’t want to come to Dimitri. If they did, Dimitri likely wouldn’t have said them anyway. Everything was going to be all right? How did Rodrigue know that? There was no way everything would be all right. It was too late for that. They could get revenge, they could make those responsible for the pain and the suffering and all the destruction suffer themselves, they could find them and take their lives and livelihoods away. But that would never right all the wrongs that had been done. Dimitri wanted everything to go back to how it was. So desperately wanted things to be okay again. But he knew that that was impossible. Not much time had passed since that nightmarish day, but even then Dimitri could tell that nothing would ever be the same. Time heals all wounds, he’d been told time and time again as a child. But some wounds scarred, didn’t they? The deepest and ugliest wounds most of all. Maybe the wounds would heal, but you’d always be able to see the scars left over. The stumps of lost limbs. The crooked fingers that had broken so badly they could not be properly straightened. Dimitri was a mess. And he’d never be the boy he was beforehand. Never. Sometimes, maybe. In some ways. But never exactly the same. In some ways it was for the better. He was too innocent before. Too naive. He realized that now. But now he was set off by the smallest things and while he might grow out of it...he would never be the same. Change was good, but was this change for the better?

It would have to be, he told himself as Rodrigue continued to rock him. It would have to be. Because if it wasn’t…

It would have to be.

It took several minutes (or some short period of time. he didn’t know. It felt so long and so short at the same time because he couldn’t really process anything except the way rodrigue held him right and whispered to him, asking him to breathe in and out, in and out, in and out, in and out) before the world began to come back into focus in an area wider than the three or so feet directly around Dimitri. He’d realized Rodrigue was there before, but the man felt more like a blob of a presence than another human being, as odd as that was to say. 

That had passed. Now Dimitri could see that Rodrigue’s eyes were red, and felt the man shaking slightly as he rocked Dimitri, the strong grip he had betraying his worry. He looked as though he might have been crying. Or that he was on the brink of doing so. Dimitri’s head was pounding again in the way it did when he thought someone was trying to crack his skull in, and it was near impossible to properly focus on anything in front of him, much less the details of Rodrigue’s face in the dark room they were in.

The rocking was making his headache much worse, actually. He already had an intense pressure building behind his eyes and radiating outwards. Every time he was rocked back, something in his head attempted to burst out through his temples. Every time he was rocked forward it tried to break through his forehead.

When Dimitri tried to ask Rodrigue to stop, all that came out was a choked gurgle.

It worked anyway.

Not that it helped the pain go away. He’d been rocked in such a rhythmic fashion that that pounding continued on as it was even without Rodrigue, strong enough to be dizzying. Whatever words were coming out of Rodrigue’s were completely beyond Dimitri, coming in one ear and out the other as he could hear what Rodrigue was saying but understand none of it. They were words, but the rush of blood in Dimitri’s ears and the pounding of his heartbeat meant all Dimitri could tell was that Rodrigue was making sounds. He could be speaking complete gibberish as far as Dimtri knew. Painful gibberish with the way hsi headache spiked at each upturn in Rodrigue’s voice. It was too loud.

His mouth still not listening to what his mind was telling it to say, Dimitri tried to move his arm up to either wave Rodrigue off or put a finger on Rodrigue’s lips in hopes the gesture would convince Rodrigue to either shut up or quiet down. He just needed a minute of silence to gather himself. Just a minute. But like his mouth, his arm didn’t interpret the instructions his mind gave it quite right and he just ended up slapping Rodrigue in the neck instead.

He felt terrible after that. Not at actually hitting Rodrigue. That didn’t make him feel bad at all, even though he knew it should. Instead, what made him feel terrible wat the annoyance that formed in his gut when he failed his action, and the annoyance he felt at Rodrigue’s attempts to aid him. Rodrigue was trying to help Dimitri, and he knew he should feel thankful. But Dimiti only felt sick and annoyed, and that made him feel terrible. The lack of proper emotions made him feel terrible. What was wrong with him, to be feeling such anger at a close friend’s honest attempts at making him feel better?

“Get up.”

Dimitri’s eyes snapped away from Rodrigue as he swung his head around, trying to find the source of the voice. As much as the pounding in his temples and the ringing in his ears was drowning out the world around him, that voice was crystal clear, breaking through all the noise and static around him. 

“Get up. Don’t let him coddle you like some child. He didn’t even do that for me.”

There. Standing behind Rodrigue, looming over him with narrowed eyes and crossed arms, a heavy frown with teeth bared stretched across his face, was Glenn. He looked furious, to say the least.

“Get up. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep breaking down over such small things.”

What things?

“The candles. The wood. The pathetically tiny fire that broke out when they made contact.”

Oh.

“Get up. Stop being so weak. How do you expect to get anything done if you keep doing things like this? We already told you, you have to get over this. We can’t keep having this conversation.”

Rodrigue had said something similar only a few moments (minutes? dozens?) before. 

“Then he was right for once. Now get up! Stop being such a weakling- such a failure. Damn it Dimitri, get up!”

Glenn’s voice rose in volume with each word, his final sentence growing to a scream that rang so powerfully in Dimitri’s ears that all sound was cut out and his vision flashed white.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Glenn. “I’m so, so sorry. I won’t do it again. I promise. I’m sorry. I promise. I’m sorry.”

Glenn scoffed, offering a sneer in return. “You promise? You  _ promise _ !? THat’s all you do, day in and day out. You promise me you’ll do something, you promise your father you’ll avenge him, you promise your stepmother that you’ll make things right. Yet what have you actually done? You’ve sat in bed all day and had tea with some kid who probably doesn’t like you and eaten flavorless meals with Father that you’d rather not had at all and whined over dumb cosmetic injuries to a doctor who doesn’t care about a word you say. Your promises mean nothing to me. Not when you haven’t so much as lifted a finger in an attempt to carry them out. They’re just empty words. Wasted breaths. Lies.”

“I’m sorry-!” Dimitri repeated, breathless. “In the future, I’ll-”

“There will be no future for you to take action in if you continue as you are,” Lambert boomed, having come up to Glenn’s side. “Either you improve now and show your strength or you will be shoved away into a room in the corner of a castle, deemed unfit to rule, deemed unfit to interact with others, too fragile to accomplish anything without breaking down completely. Used for a child once you come of age and nothing more. A disgrace to the family line. A failure who achieved naught for those he swore to protect and avenge.”

Lambert’s words brought a sick feeling in the pit of Dimitri’s stomach.

He continued, eyes narrowed. “So sit up and open your eyes. Tell Rodrigue that you are fine and prepare for the ceremony tomorrow. You have no time to waste. If you’re anything less than perfect, then you know what terrible fate awaits you. Rufus is a weakling. He’ll never truly have Daerghus under his grasp. But you can and will, so long as you do not slip up here. You must be the iron rule that Faerghus needs. You must be the man, the effigy it looks up to. The figure they honor and revere, that they and our enemies shall never cross for fear not of the repercussions from your men, but the actions you yourself will take to cut them down. They must know that the Blaiddyds are not weak-willed figureheads who will collapse at the drop of a pin or the fall of a candle. Stand strong and prove yourself to them. Gather yourself. Get up and prove yourself to the guards around you. Do not let this evening be a total failure. Silence them. Make sure they never see you in such a state again. Your mental state is not to be questioned. You will rule. You will gather your power and avenge us.”

Lambert finished his speech with a deep stare into Dimitri’s eyes, waiting a moment before turning and walking away. Glen waited a little longer, still watching Dimitri from over Rodrigue’s shoulder. Then he too left, walking to the other side of the room before he vanished.

Ah. Vanished. 

He wasn’t real. Dimitri had almost forgotten.

Still, Dimitri tried to shift to see where he and Lambert had gone off to, to check whether they’d just gone somewhere Dimitri couldn’t see from his current position or if they had gone for good. He was stopped by Rodrigue wrapping a hand around the back of his head and dragging Dimitri’s face into the crook of his neck.

“It’s not your fault,” Rodrigue said, Dimitri finally able to make out his words. “There’s no need to apologize, Dimitri. It was just a table and I was riling you up. It was my fault. Please don’t apologize, just concentrate. Breathe. Come back. Please.”

“-”

Again, the words Dimitri wanted to say caught in his throat. All that came out was a choked noise. Which was partially due to the fact that Rodrigue was holding his head at an off angle that bent his neck forward in a way that cut off his windpipe and he couldn’t  _ breathe _ .

He thrust his hands out at Rodrigue’s chest at that realization, sudden panic rushing through his body. The shove successfully separated them, Rodrigue tipping backward as Dimitri fell in the opposite direction, pain shooting up his spine and into his head and neck when he made contact with the wall. It was worth it, the comfort and falling panic more than exceeding the contact pain.

“Do not,” he finally managed to say, breath uneven and voice shaking, “do not hold me like that. I do not-” a breath, “need coddling.” Another.” And I can’t breathe.”

Rodrigue let out a grand sigh. He immediately adopted a more formal tone, straightening himself though he remained kneeled. “I see. How are you feeling?”

Dimitri felt his left eye twitch. What kind of question was that? Dimitri was gasping for air, and could feel his bangs sticking to his forehead with sweat. He’d heard Rodrigue’s voice and had suddenly used nearly all of his strength (and he was beyond grateful the crest of Blaiddyd had not activated that time. If it had, and he’d made contact with rodrigue… he would’ve done more than just broken the man’s ribs. in all likelihood-) to separate the two of them. He clearly wasn’t doing well.

But that didn’t mean he would admit to it. Shrugging the blanket to his shoulders, Dimitri used the wall as a crutch to rise to unsteady feet. Rodrigue rose alongside him, moving to support Dimitri, but Dimitri waved him off. “I will be okay. I am sorry for my outburst. Please forget that this happened.” He gave a small bow, setting his eyes on the three other people in the room when he straightened himself. In addition to Rodrigue, there was a knight that had earlier been guarding his door, a member of the cleaning staff, and one of the clerics that had accompanied Cornelia during his healing sessions. “I ask that you forget this incident as well. Or at the very least, do not speak of it. I was unsettled by something, but it shall not happen again. This I swear.”

“And will you follow through?” Lambert’s voice said, echoing throughout Dimitri’s head. The man was not visible.

‘Yes,’ Dimitri thought back, careful not to let the words show on his lips for fear of worrying the others in the room, or increasing whatever suspicions they had that he might be unstable.

As it was he was shaking slightly and couldn’t get himself to stop. Nothing serious, nothing that would make him drop a glass or tip a vase on touching it, but enough that he felt it even if the others could not see.

Rodrigue cleared his throat, rising to his feet. “Yes, as his highness said. Do not speak of this incident. That is an order.” He addressed the knight. “If pressured, say you rushed in because of a commotion that arose when the table splintered from putting too much weight on it. It was an old piece of wood, and time had worn away at it until it collapsed under the slight pressure it was put under today.” Then the cleric. “You entered just to be safe. His highness’ health is top priority, and you wanted to make sure he was not hurt by the broken wood. Which I ask that you check in a moment, both for honesty’s sake and to be safe. I fear he might have gotten a few shards and splinters in his legs and feet.” Finally, the member of the cleaning staff. “You entered, cleaned the mess of the table, and took your leave.” He then scanned the faces of the three once more, eyes narrowed, face beyond serious. “Reveal anything else and you risk more than just demotion, do you understand?”

The three nodded, the cleric and member of the cleaning staff looking slightly frightened while the knight’s face was blank.

It wasn’t often that Rodrigue used such a serious expression. But when he did, he was imposing in a way that was hard to disobey. Serious and strong, unquestionable and authoritative. A man who would have his way.

Rodrigue’s expression softened slightly when he waved the servant and knight off, though not by much. “You two may return to your normal posts then. If you would,” he began, speaking to the cleric, “please check his highness.”

The knight and servant left without question, the latter having already finished cleaning the mess of the table and taking the remains to be discarded elsewhere while the former returned to his station on the other side of the bedroom’s (open) door. He stood in the sitting room between the bedroom and the hall so he wasn’t that far away, but it was some form of privacy, at least.

That left the cleric and Rodrigue. One unfamiliar, one well known. 

Dimitri quietly thanked the- 

Who was there to thank? The Flames? Could his minor thanks and daily favors go to something such as that? The Flames were (was?) not the same as the Goddess was said to be. According to what he’d been taught and what he’d always thought of it, The Flames were less of a distinct being like the Goddess and more of an entity or passer of judgement. Not one person who would receive his prayers. But a standard of justice, omnipotent and all seeing and impartial when they either accepted or tore a person into their depths. Justice at its highest form. Taking into account all deeds, not just the most well known or fantastic. But that was a concept he could pray to, was it not? Ultimate justice, ultimate judgement. A fair resolution to life, whether in a quick and sweet or long and painful way. A deserved end. Something that knew what a man or woman or person of any kind should receive upon their deaths. Something that would deal properly with those who had made his family suffer. 

Not that that knowledge would make him abandon all attempts to get his revenge on the living, though. He would make them pay. He would deliver them pain and retribution for their actions, regardless of what they were set to receive upon their deaths. His actions would simply hasten the deliverance of punishment for their crimes. Make sure they paid for what they had done while they still remembered the agony they had caused. The Flames would take his actions and their suffering into account when they died. If they thought what he put them through was sufficient, then they would do no more (which he highly doubted. he was but one person. he could,  _ would _ make them suffer, but he sadly doubted he’d ever be able to pull off the same level of pain and destruction they had wrought. no, he could start the process, but he wouldn’t be able to finish it. all he could do was prepare them for the flames, who would carry out their judgment upon those who had wronged him and his father and stepmother and glenn and soldiers and really all of faerghus who would grieve and suffer in their wake). But if they thought he had not done enough, they would enact their own punishment. Either way, suffering for the damned. They had brought about their own damnation. It was only a matter of time before it reached them. 

Still, that damnation was a ways off. For the moment Dimitri was still confined to his room, and even when he left the next day he’d undoubtedly be confined to the castle. It would be some time before he was able to venture out and find those responsible. Before he could enact his vengeance at its fullest, even if he was able to start the process and first steps from within Fhirdiad’s borders. 

For the moment, all he could do was deal with those in front of him: Rodrigue and the cleric he’d seen once before.

He was thankful this cleric wasn’t Lilienne. That’s what he had been about to do before he was caught in his thoughts, wasn’t it? He’d have to be careful about that - getting an idea in his head and obsessively going over it while ignoring what was in front of him. But he was thankful nonetheless. It was embarrassing enough to have had another...outburst. He didn’t want anyone to see him in a moment of weakness, and especially not someone like Lilienne who seemed to want to be a friend, even if only at the level two people of such different statuses could call each other as much. In Dimitri’s mind, there wasn’t any problem with such friendship. But Lilienne, Dedue, anyone he’d ever tried to interact with that saw more than two degrees of separation acted as if it were forbidden. Taboo. Something that would bring down the Goddess’ (or crown’s) rath upon them. But he wanted that friendship nonetheless, so he was grateful Lilienne hadn’t seen such a scene that might have made her question his competence and her desire to befriend him. He was pushing enough people away as it is. He’d rather not push away one more.

This cleric seemed much more nervous than Lilienne had, biting her lip with hands clenched together in a grip so strong it turned her knuckles white.

“Your highness, pardon my asking, but I humbly request that you sit on the bed for this, so I can perform a full check up.” She met his eyes for a brief second, before seeing some sort of expression that made hers widen considerably (in fear?) “If that would not be too much trouble!” she tacked on in a rush.

Why was she so panicked about fulfilling the request Rodrigue had given her? What did she believe Dimitri would do to her? He hoped there weren’t rumors floating around that he was dangerous or unstable or anything of the sort. He’d had a few slip ups, a few...scenes...but he wasn’t going to hurt anyone. And he was done with those. He had promised- he had promises that he  _ would _ carry out to Lambert and Glenn about that. He would be better. He wasn’t going to do anything to harm her.

Dimitri put up what he hoped was a warm smile, walking over to the bed and sitting on the edge. “Of course. Thank you for your polite request.”

The cleric still seemed wary, but he saw some of the stiff stress melt away. Not completely. But enough that Dimitri felt slight relief at the sight. His smile had been well received. “Understood. I’ll begin now if you have no objections, your highness.”

She kneeled at his bedside, in the spot that table had stood before its unfortunate demise. No remains of its destruction nor the materials that had been atop it were to be seen.

“Now, I want to warn you this might hurt a little bit. I promise I will do my best to avoid that, but please don’t hesitate to tell me if and when you feel even the slightest bit of discomfort. I apologize in advance if you do, and ask that you forgive me. We have some numbing herbs in the infirmary that I could get, but that would take some time and might raise questions that I believe you would rather avoid, right?”

Dimitri nodded and the cleric began her work. Little splinters had worked their way into his skin, as had a few shards of glass. It did twinge a little to have the smaller ones removed, and hurt considerably more when the larger ones were pulled out, but he said nothing of it. The discomfort they caused was negligible compared to what he’d gone through not that long ago and he didn’t want to interrupt the cleric during her work. The pain was nothing worthy of being mentioned. Besides, she seemed rather invested and fairly sweet. He didn’t want to crush her mood by telling her she was hurting him. She had been scared enough before treating him. He knew that, even if he only called it minor discomfort, that would equate to full on pain under Rodrigue’s gaze, and she'd probably spend the rest of the examination fearing for her position within the castle.

And possibly life. Though in her case it would likely be more a case of not having a job endangering her livelihood than actually being at risk for being killed. Still, neither was pleasant. The first was probably worse. Years spent with nearly nothing, wasting away without employment or any income to get by on versus an undesired but still swift death.

Thinking about it, he realized he had no idea how, when, or what the castle staff was paid. Did she get lodging, living in the servants’ quarters and being paid in shelter and food. Didshe live there and additionally earn a small sum? Did she live outside the walls and come in in the early hours each morning, paid just enough to afford a small residence and food that would get her by on her own, or with the help of a husband or father? Did she commute and do fine? He suddenly felt embarrassed at his ignorance. Why had he never thought about such things before? What kind of future king, what kind of current prince was he to know so little about the lives of the subjects who he saw every day?

It wasn’t long before the cleric was done, having removed the debris from his skin and cast a short heal spell to close the wounds. Had he not needed to stand on them tomorrow, she said, she would’ve left them to heal naturally. Healing them again so soon after having been subject to heal spells not only increased the risk of scarring, but also left thinner skin over the area. Made it more fragile until time had passed and the body recovered enough energy to heal the area on its own. But since the situation was as it was, she thought it for the best.

At least it was somewhere no one would see if it did scar, and no one would ever question it if he kept covered. Shorts and sandals weren’t exactly common attire in Faerghus.

She left with a bow, leaving Dimitri alone with Rodrigue yet again.

“Your highness-”

“Let us not, Rodrigue.”

“Dimitri-”

Dimitri put on a smile, similar to the one he’d given the cleric. Warm and inviting. But this one had more of a tinge of authority to it. “Please. I think it would be best if I got some sleep. I would hate to stumble over myself in the ceremony because I was tired. Not to mention sleep helps hasten recovery, and I’d rather my feet heal sooner than later in case I end up having to stand for longer than expected. Bloody trails following the prince would certainly raise an outcry, would they not? Best to avoid it all, I would say.”

A sigh. “As you wish, your highness. Servants will arrive in the morning to help you dress. I will meet you on the way to the throne room where the ceremony is to be held.

“Thank you.”

“I’m simply doing my duty.” He headed for the door, pausing before he could cross the threshold to turn back around. “But please, Dimitri. Don’t be afraid to lean on me. What you went through was far more than any grown man should have had to experience, and so-”

“Goodnight Rodrigue.” The smile was gone. In its place was a flat expression, Dimitri not in the mood to maintain such a farce. He saw no need anymore. “I will see you in the morning.”

He watched Rodrigue swallow hard. The man didn’t say anything though, instead silently nodding to Dimitri before taking his leave. And that was that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dimitri really hasn't had a great time with things. You may read this and go, "well he and Rodrigue have already talked about Glenn. Dimitri has had a panic attack/breakdown before. Why bother writing it again?" and the answer to that is. In real life, most of that stuff isn't one and done. Glenn is a bit of a touchy subject even at the monastery, and in the fic it has only been a couple of days since Dimitri and Rodrigue talked about him. That's still a sore wound. An open one, really. As for Dimitri's panic attacks, that's the last big one we'll see. He might have little things along the way, but not as bad. Perhaps it's too fast for healing, but I know it's also something that gets old. He's supposed to grow and heal over the course of this, so it was only a matter of time until that stuff started to...not die away, but morph into something else a little less obvious. A little less explosive, though still serious. 
> 
> Now for long random notes that probably no one but me cares about but I'll include anyway.
> 
> 1) I recently replayed a certain game I won’t name for spoiler reasons, but at one point someone said something along the lines of “everyone needs a God to believe in,” when referring to how a certain system was established to trick people into thinking the false group they were loyal to actually existed so that the underlings would have motivation to keep on working. For Dimitri’s crisis, I sort of thought of something similar. He was raised with a god, or Goddess, that he devoted much of his life to. Without her, for what reason would he live? To serve the kingdom of Faerghus and get his revenge is the answer (even though the healthier answer might be to enjoy life), but it’s a switch that takes a lot of effort. 
> 
> 2) “The Duscur.” In some support conversations and/or story/paralogue chapters, the people of Duscur are referred to as “The Duscur” in the same way someone would refer to people from the U.S. as “The Americans.” It feels odd to write it, but that’s how it’s presented in canon, so that’s what I’ve stuck with. 
> 
> 3) I love Dimitri but sometimes he has a problem of jumping to conclusions. Combine that with obsessive tendencies and self hatred… it’s easy to feel like the world is conspiring against him. So that's why he keeps thinking that sort of stuff, even if a few seconds later he realizes he probably shouldn't think it. Doesn't make the thoughts or feelings go away though. I also see him as having semi-mood swings in that vein. Like sometimes he is happy to have friends, and then later realizes that that was presumptuous of him and feels guilty, but then he has another time and feels happy again and says he was wrong before, but then he’s alone and all the bad feelings creep back… 
> 
> 4) Felix is canonically described as being a crybaby when he was younger, and acting more like Glenn when he was older. So I imagine Glenn had a sort of sarcastic/sassy streak which might have led to some conflict with Rodrigue, but that they were still on good terms. Then Glenn dies, Felix becomes bitter, and yadda yadda.
> 
> 5) I can’t tell you the number of times I wanted to use the word hellish or hell here but couldn’t because as far as I know Hell is not a thing in FE3H. Closest I can get is the Eternal Flames, but even then I’m not assigning them a completely bad connotation. More like a “they will purify and send off those who are good, they will make suffer those who have sinned” sort of thing. You may say, well that’s like X in Y religion. My response is that my only religious education is from 2 classes on medieval religion (mostly Christianity) that focused more on portrayal and understanding/modification of religion than the specific beliefs/practices within said religions. I know generalities, and some pretty in depth things in very specific areas, but I'm far from an expert.
> 
> Until next time,  
> Mariyekos


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has it all! Nightmares! A dress-up special outfit sequence! That one uncle who is ready to rumble even though it's not quite the time and no one else is really feeling it! What more could you want! ...A lot, probably. This is yet another chapter that was supposed to extend into another scene if not two, but at 11k I decided it was best to cut it here. I really don't have a lot to say for this chapter. The next one might take 3 weeks to come out instead of 2 because I may or may not be working on another chapter for my 300k word fic on ffnet that I haven't updated in a year in hopes of getting it out in time for the 4th anniversary, but you didn't hear that from me. That's not very relevant to this fic though, so without further ado, enjoy.

Dimitri didn’t sleep that night. Not deep enough or for long enough for it to be considered anything more than occasional dozing, at least. He woke up at least a dozen times, sometimes from nightmares, sometimes because his body simply refused to sleep. You have things to do, it felt like his body was telling him, you cannot waste time sleeping the night away! So to wake him it sometimes did so on its own, and sometimes gave him the extra motivation of a twisted memory-dream turned nightmare. 

These nightmares were different than the ones he’d grown up with and the ones he’d been plagued with the last few nights. 

As a child, his nightmares had been almost whimsical. Walking with his stepmother to the gardens before one of the plants turned into a giant monster and gobbled her up; giving a speech to the people of Faerghus when all of a sudden he forgot his words and started to say the wrong things, causing them to laugh at him; losing a favorite book or toy somewhere he could not find even though he could’ve sworn he’d just seen it moments before. 

The past few weeks, his nightmares had been much more traditionally horrifying. Bodies all around him, flames he couldn’t escape, screams and cries he could not see the source of nor could he drown out. Duscur as it had been that day, isolated into whatever bit chose to haunt him that night. Sometimes only a few aspects. Sometimes all.

Memories of Duscur still plagued him that night, as they had since the incident. But instead of beginning with terror as they usually did, they began as normal memories: of times where he sat with his stepmother as she hummed while embroidering a piece of cloth; of times when he watched from the wall-walk as Glenn fought with other knights in the training hall and Dimitri silently cheered him on; of times when his father pointed to the paintings of the past Kings and Queens of Faerghus and explained to him all of the duties they had carried out over the centuries, as well as the tasks that still lay ahead.

He would sit with his stepmother as he always had, reading a book or simply watching her deft fingers work magic with a needle and thread until she’d prick herself as he’d hardly ever seen her do, but always disliked. Then she’d stare at it, motionless, as the cut on her finger welled up with blood. That in and of itself wasn’t particularly unusual, even if not pleasant. His stepmother had always acted a bit odd at the sight of someone bleeding. Paused. Grimaced. But in his dreams, the bleeding would not stop. It would get heavier and heavier until the blood was gushing out of her hands and arms and sides and mouth and she would fall to the floor begging for him to help her but some invisible wall would get in the way, preventing him from making contact and preventing him from leaving the room to call for help. All he could do was claw at the hidden walls and cry for help that wouldn’t come as Patricia screamed at him for his inaction in the face of her injury and for distracting her and causing her to hurt herself and for any other insult that came to mind until she eventually bled out, going silent.

Then he would be the one left staring. Just watching as the still corpse lay there, the only motion being the slow drip of whatever blood remained in her body as it leaked from open wounds, splashing outward when it hit the puddles underneath. Because it would be too nice for the nightmare to end immediately once Patricia breathed her last breath. It had to stretch on for minutes afterwards. To make sure Dimitri felt the pain and guilt of his inaction. To make sure he understood what he’d done.

The nightmare-memories of Glenn were equally disturbing. They would begin with a common sight in the castle - Glenn standing out in the training yard as he sparred with the other knights, Dimitri watching him from up on the wall walk with wide eyes as he cheered silently for Glenn’s victory. Glenn didn’t like it when he yelled out to him, thinking it was unfair for Dimitri to favor him over the other knights. He wanted to prove his skill on his strength alone, not by association with the prince. In this particular memory, however, Dimitri did call out to Glenn once Glenn had finished his matches for the day. Glenn had done admirably. Favor or not, Dimitri thought he deserved commendation for the excellent swordsmanship he’d displayed. Though he’d recently been working on his lance form to officially pass his dark knight certification test which the knight captain administered at moon’s end, he insisted on keeping his swordsmanship in top form alongside it and the effort showed. 

In real life, Glenn had been in a good enough mood to wave back to Dimitri upon hearing his call, jogging over to the spot Dimitri had run from to meet him halfway. In the distorted dream world Glenn never got a foot away. 

Instead, when Glenn turned from his downed sparring partner to respond to Dimitri’s call said partner shot up from the ground and thrust his sword through Glenn’s chest, jerking him forwards as his eyes went glassy and Dimitri’s name came out as nothing more than a choked gurgle, cut off when Glenn’s body fell forward and his head hit the dirt. By the time Dimitri reached Glenn’s position he was already dead. No matter how many times Dimitri shook his body back and forth, no matter how many times he pumped Glenn’s chest in an attempt to restart his heart, Glenn would not get up, a bloody halo having formed around his head. No one came to help.

By the time Dimitri reached the first dream with his father, he could tell something was off. He hadn’t realized it was a dream when it started, the dream being another borne from a memory much more pleasant than its new counterpart. It wasn’t violent or bloody like the nightmares about Glenn or his stepmother had been. But from the moment it began he was filled with an unpleasant feeling that told him something was off.

He and his father were walking through the royal portrait gallery when it began. One portrait for every ruling king or queen of Faerghus, his father taking the time to give a short description of each one. But with each portrait Lambert pointed to, the heavier Dimitri felt, as if some invisible weight were dragging him down. It grew stronger and stronger until Lambert finally reached his own portrait, painted on the day of his coronation. Dimitri collapsed before he could hear what Lambert had to say about it. When he did, Lambert stopped talking, but he didn’t make any move to pick Dimitri up. He only stared at his son, disappointment evident. Like he’d hoped Dimitri would have done better, but wasn’t particularly surprised he’d crumbled over the weight of the responsibilities laid out for him. Dimitri found himself unable to say anything in return. He could only look up at his father and the look of shame and disgust he wore, apologetic. 

When Dimitri woke from that dream, he decided he’d had enough of sleeping.

He quietly slipped out of bed and crept over to his bookshelf instead, eyes snapping back to the door with every other step to make sure the guard at his door wasn’t alerted to his actions. He didn’t want to deal with the guard calling over Rodrigue to lecture him on the importance of sleeping or anything unimportant and time-wasting like that. Not to mention he assumed Rodrigue was sleeping by that point and thought it would be rude to wake him.

Thankfully the night guard was stationed next to the door that connected his sitting room to the hall rather than the door connecting the bedroom to the sitting room, so he was able to reach his bookshelf undetected. There he found the papers he and Rodrigue had gone over.

Though a handful were damaged by the water and- and fire, none had been completely lost. That sight had just been a product of his overactive imagination, apparently. Thus they’d been put on Dimitri’s bookshelf as the mess was cleaned, forgotten in lieu of focusing on calming Dimitri and then exiting the room when commanded to do so.

Dimitri felt a little guilty for that. He shouldn’t have been so harsh on Rodrigue. But what had passed had passed, and as far as he knew he had no time reversal capabilities so there was nothing that could be done. Aside from apologizing or treating Rodrigue better in the future, the latter being something he definitely planned to do, the former in a fight with his pride whose winner was yet to be decided.

Still, his command had meant the papers had been left behind. Thus Dimitri had something to spend his time on until the sun rose and preparations for the ceremony began. 

Dimitri grabbed the papers in one hand and carried a chair over to the window with the other. Gripping such a wide object hurt a little, likely because his hands were still fragile from having been healed so many times in a short period. Just a few more days and they would be back to normal. That was what Cornelia told him. Lilienne too. Just a few more days and he would be back to normal, apart from the scars that would never go away but could be easily hidden, blemishes that while ugly weren’t expected to decrease his motor function or general capabilities in any way. 

Heavy curtains were moved aside to let in moonlight, the view of the outside world somehow calming. The only movement Dimitri could see was the rustling of trees in the garden and outside the castle walls, the occasional flicker of light and shadow from a patrol’s torch adding a bit of variety to the scene. He couldn’t see the flames themselves, only the orange light. But it was obvious what the origin was. That knowledge did raise goosebumps on Dimitri’s flesh for a moment, but he tried to remember Rodrigue’s advice to breathe and to concentrate on the trees instead, taking a few minutes to do so until he calmed down. Not a perfect method, but one that would work. Besides, his goal wasn’t to observe the castle or stargaze. He’d opened the curtains to bring in moonlight that would illuminate the pages before him enough that he could read them without straining his eyes too much. There were no candles in the room to light (not that Dimitri believed doing so would be very productive given the day’s earlier events), and if he sat too close to the door to try to get some light from the sitting room, the guard would likely notice he was awake. 

Rodrigue or not he didn’t want to deal with someone telling him to go back to sleep. He wasn’t tired anymore. He’d already tried to sleep for long enough and knew his attempts weren’t getting him anywhere. Besides, the moon was low enough in the sky that the sun would likely be rising in about an hour or so, so it wasn’t as though he’d be getting much more rest anyway. The servants were bound to come in as soon as the sun rose to start prepping him. An hour spent reading was one better spent than an hour lying in bed with sleep escaping him or nightmares disturbing him.

Thus he spent the next hour and a half sitting by the window, reading over the documents again and again until he could say his lines in nearly any order. During that time he would occasionally rise to pace around the room, socks on the rugs strewn about the floor muffling the noise. Sitting made him antsy and he needed to build back his leg strength, so as long as he was awake and able he thought he might as well take advantage of the full possible productivity available to him. He would have to sit for several hours over the course of the rest of the day. There was no harm in getting the blood flowing and working himself a little before that. Even if his ankles and knees began to ache, and a sharp pain formed in the back of one heel. It was nothing he couldn't get over. Nothing he couldn’t ignore. Aches weren’t real wounds. He was fine. He would think of other things, not the constant twinges of discomfort that arose with each step.

He did, however, quickly place the papers back on his bookshelf and throw himself into the chair with his head facing the window as if he’d been sitting there the entire time when he heard the door to the sitting room open as the sun began to rise.

The two servants who entered to dress him were surprised to see he was already awake. Though Dimitri had always been an early riser, he tended to wake a few minutes after sunrise, not before. He told him he’d done the former though, and that upon seeing light creeping under the curtains he had walked over to them to see the sunrise. It had been a while since he had seen it after all, first being unconscious and then being confined to bed for so long.

They accepted the excuse without question. They didn’t point out that he seemed more awake than someone who had supposedly only risen moments before, nor tell him he seemed tired, nor anything else of the sort. He hoped it was because he had done a good enough job convincing them his story was true that they didn’t notice anything wrong, and not because they were just being polite. 

They did, however, notice that his left foot was bleeding, which Dimitri himself had not. He had worn white socks to bed, so the large red splotch at the bottom of his left heel stood out considerably. He hadn’t thought to check himself for injuries though, and thus hadn’t seen the spot until one of the servants gasped at the sight and asked if he was okay. He responded that he was. It wasn’t that big a deal. It didn’t hurt that much, and it wasn’t as though the blood had completely soaked through the sock enough to stain the carpet. It didn’t look terrible when they peeled the fabric off his skin either. It stuck a little, yes, but it wasn’t horrifying. 

When he did see the spot, Dimitri realized that it was one of the places the cleric had healed the night prior. She had told him the area would be fragile, and it seemed he’d put too much pressure on it too soon. He hadn’t gotten the healthy amount of sleep that he’d used as an excuse to get Rodrigue to leave, after all. He could only blame himself for that. He’d paced the room for well over an hour without even thinking of the cleric’s advice. The only reason she’d cleared him to walk (other than the threat of losing her job if she didn’t have Dimitri ready in time for the ceremony, which meant she’d clear him anyway because either he wasn’t cleared and she was shamed for not doing her job or he was cleared but showed injury in which case she was shamed for not doing her job, both possibly resulting in termination) was because she must have assumed he would only walk on it for a short time the next day in what would be much softer socks than Dimitri had walked around in the last few hours. They were old ones meant for warmth, but they were unfortunately pretty rough and rubbed terribly. His stepmother had made them for him though, so he’d never gotten rid of them. He’d have to make sure they were cleaned and not thrown away this time. If they were tossed… He’d just make sure they weren’t. The socks were fine. He was fine. His heal didn’t hurt much. He could bear it.

The servants looked a bit uneasy at the sight, but he tried to assure them it was no big deal. Neither of them knew any healing magic so they couldn’t close the wound, for which they apologized. Dimitri didn’t want to delay things by having to send and then wait for someone who did, so he asked for them to simply put a bandage on it and continue on with their tasks. A small basket of medical supplies had been left in Dimitri’s room and one of the servants knew first aid despite his lack of magical prowess, so it took no time at all before the wound was cleaned and covered and the morning resumed as it was planned.

Not that that was something Dimitri was looking forward to regardless of injury.

The crowning of the regent, while not as grand as the crowning of the king or queen, was an elaborate affair. The highest members of Faerghan society (who could make it) would be present and ready to see the men who would lead their country. As such, Dimitri was to be dressed in ceremonial attire specially prepared for the ceremony, to be worn once and never again. And with special one time attire came complexity. With complexity came layers and ties that Dimitri couldn’t manage by himself. Perhaps he could if he had time, but the ceremony was to be held in only a few short hours that had events of their own to attend, so he could not. He would’ve at least liked to do his own shoes and socks, but it would be an insult to the servants’ pride if he stole their jobs from them, or so his uncle had told him once. He didn’t know if that was really how they felt or if that was the excuse his uncle gave for his laziness, but he allowed the servants to do as they would anyway. It was uncomfortable as always, but tolerable.

The second his night clothes were removed he decided it was not uncomfortable as always. It was worse. 

Because the moment his nightshirt was pulled over his head and his back was exposed he heard a sharp gasp from one of the servants, followed by a quiet prayer to the Goddess. Or really, a “oh Goddess, what have you allowed to happen?” followed by a tacked on, “thank you for preserving him despite these wounds.” Likely not something Dimitri was meant to hear, but something that frustrated him nonetheless. The Goddess had no involvement. No one helped him that day. No one watched and laughed. He was alone.

Other than the frustration, he was filled with shame. He hadn’t seen his back since the Tragedy, there being no mirrors in his room to peer over his shoulder at, but he knew the sight couldn’t be a pretty one. The skin on his back tugged when he moved certain ways, likely a result of fresh scarring. He could still remember the swords that bit into his skin when he threw himself between Dedue and the Faerghan soldiers who were attempting to kill him without realizing Dimitri was there. He knew his back had to look appalling because of it. But it was so, so much worse to hear the exclamations of horror behind him than to simply imagine what it could look like. To hear a second gasp as the other servant turned to look and saw a sight they hadn’t expected, Dimitri standing stiffly as they marveled at his ruined skin. He didn’t want others to see he’d been damaged so badly. That he’d been so weak. 

He cleared his throat loudly, watching as they shuffled back to their duties. 

He didn’t miss when they cringed every time another piece of clothing was removed and another section of burnt, scarred skin was revealed. The sympathetic looks they gave him stung. Were they really sympathy, or were they pity? Neither sat well with him, though he knew the first should have. 

He felt sick thanking them for their concern whenever they apologized or commented on how sorry they felt for him, having to go through everything that he did. That they wished they could have taken his place or taken some of his pain away or other meaningless promises that didn’t reach their eyes and he’d have rather not heard at all. He did need to be polite, though, so he thanked them regardless of his internal feelings. He’d promised himself he’d get better at his mask. He wanted to be kind to people, even if something in the back of his head told him there was no point.

(this particular thing in the back of his head was a true something. not a glenn or father or stepmother. just a thing. just a bunch of emotions or group of whispers that had no singular voice and no concrete words, more a feeling and an implied message than a direct order or statement. it was funny. he’d always thought of such things as ‘voices’ in the back of his head. but now that he’d had to deal with real voices, he knew the feelings were child’s play. mild. hardly impactful.

...though the thought did stick with him for a while. that he was somehow being cruel by being kind to others, because the feelings weren’t genuine. that if he had to lie he deserved the anger he would receive when he was not kind back. that he deserved their hate. that it was better to shelter the woes of an honest person than to feed them lies that would never really satisfy them and only add to the weight of his sins-)

The faster Dimitri thanked them, the faster they stopped talking, the faster they would be done dressing him, and the faster he could escape their stares of pity. Their burning gazes, tearing holes into already worn skin. 

When they finally reached his hands, giving him the gloves he had requested, they paused like they had with his back.

Dimitri took a deep breath. He’d been expecting this.

“Do not worry,” he assured them, forming a tight fist and releasing it, wiggling his fingers about. “It’s just cosmetic. I can move my hands around perfectly well.”

“I’m glad to hear it, your highness,” one of the two responded.

With that, the long process of getting dressed was complete. It always amazed Dimitri how much time such a thing could take even with so many people at his sides to aid him. Still, sometimes he wondered if he could do it faster if he somehow managed to grab the clothes and put them on before the servants could get to them. He never felt like it needed to take nearly as long as it did. Not to mention how uncomfortable the process made him, regardless of what his body looked like. Especially since his body now looked like what it looked like. He wasn’t a child anymore; he didn’t wear a corset. There was no need for him to be dressed by others.

The outfit wasn’t that difficult to assemble. First was a linen undershirt that would go unseen, light but necessary to keep the more expensive and fine fabrics from making contact with his skin. Over it was a white silk tunic, embroidered with silver lacework that went down to his knees. It curled into large swirls by his sides, tiny leaves and stems crawling all over the fabric. They continued onto the tunic’s long sleeve, following the semas before dipping down under the light gloves he’d requested, which reached midway up his forearms in a cobalt matching the crest on his surcoat. Though many noble houses chose to use gold in the fabric to display their status, house Blaiddyd had always gone for silver instead for reasons unknown to Dimitri. Perhaps Loog had simply liked grey more. Regardless, much of the tunic was covered up by a long surcoat so the majority of the silver detailing would not be seen. The surcoat itself also fell to his knees in front, though it dipped down to mid-calf in back to get a better flow. Or rather, it didn’t dip so low in front to increase mobility. Not that it mattered much when all he was expected to do in the garment was stand, but so was the way of fashion. That was something he would probably never understand.

Part of the fashion that he didn’t quite get was the insistence on including the blaiddyd crest so many times. It was emblazoned on the front of his surcoat in an eye catching fashion, shades of silver on cobalt fabric that shimmered in the light. It was also present on the heavy cape he wore, placed below the silver emblem of Faerghus on the back of the cobalt fabric lined with white wolf’s fur along the neck until it reached a silver clasp at the front which kept it on his shoulders, also bearing the crest of Blaiddyd carved into it. The inside of the cape was marked with snaking lines, bearing a resemblance to but not exactly matching his family’s crest. It was a little much, if you asked Dimitri. He understood it was good to emphasize his bloodline and the blessing the Goddess had given him, but all the detail felt like unnecessary overemphasis. Like it looked a little ridiculous. 

At his waist, cinching the undershirt, tunic, and surcoat was a black leather belt with silver buckles lining the dyed leather to keep it in place before it was wrapped around itself in the current style, one end hanging down along his right leg. His trousers were the same shade of white as his tunic, though they could hardly be seen given his boots nearly reached the end of the tunic he wore. They were in a silver that matched the rest of his color scheme. Because apparently having more than three colors (not counting the various shades of said colors and the black of his belt) was too much for the designers. He didn’t hate the outfit. He’d just rather have worn something a bit darker. White felt too… pure, almost. Strange. He didn’t know how to describe it. He just felt more comfortable in blacks and other dark shades.

Other than that, he’d managed to avoid having to wear any gaudy rings by virtue of having put on gloves instead, and was allowed to strap his (secretly sharpened) ceremonial sword and dagger to his waist by himself. 

He was allowed a few minutes to himself after the servants left, assuring him they thought he looked fantastic, like a true prince. He thanked them for their compliments. He thought he looked terrible. Like one of the dolls he’d seen among Gustave’s things once, accompanied by several cloth outfits of completely mismatched colors that he planned to give to his daughter Annette. The doll itself had been beautifully carved, but Dimitri had gotten the idea that Gustave was also terrible at all things related to fashion. The color combinations he had made were...not great.

Speaking of Gustave, his few minutes of solitude were brought to an end when Gustave’s replacement, Elias, arrived.

He was a tall and bulky man of similar build to the man who had last held his position, with red hair and a lack of the faintest hint of a smile. Appearance wise he and Gustave were quite similar, but at least Gustave had always tried to be kind in the way that someone who was terrible with people did their best to make others comfortable. They had been attempts Dimitri greatly appreciated.

But Elias seemed content on maintaining his distance and being perfectly polite when he bowed and informed Dimitri it was time to escort him to a side room near the throne room so he could begin the final preparations for the day’s ceremony.

He followed the man as they made their way down the castle halls, his mind drifting back to Gustave once more. 

He didn’t entirely understand why Gustave had left so suddenly after the Tragedy. It wasn’t because the man had been involved and was fleeing to avoid facing punishment. That Dimitri was sure of. But he hadn’t the slightest idea why Gustave had left or where he could have gone. 

In the few moments of clarity Dimitri had between having been cut down by the Faerghus soldiers and having been brought to the castle where he would drift off into a long fitfull sleep, he remembered seeing Gustave’s face for a moment. He’d looked crushed. Crushed, filled with disbelief, guilty. Not the guilt of someone who had done something wrong. The guilt of someone who had not done enough. The guilt of a man who had rushed as fast as he could to make it to Dimitri’s side after having left his king and prince to go ahead to a nearby town only to find everything had been shattered to pieces and the majority of his charges were dead, the only survivor so badly injured he might’ve only arrived in time to watch said survivor die. Dimitri hadn’t died of course, but he could recall the look of ultimate sorrow on Gustave’s face that he’d seen as he drifted in and out of consciousness, the sound of his voice speaking desperate and choked words Dimitri’s dazed mind had been too out of it to comprehend. 

Gustave had been by Dimitri’s side since before he was born. He’d worked for the royal family for decades before that. He’d been a constant in Dimitri’s life, and though he wouldn’t say Gustave had been like a father, he’d still been someone whose relationship Dimitri considered precious. The man had left Dimitri on mountains with only the bare essentials and instructions to survive the night. He’d gotten Dimitri up far earlier than he wanted to rise for morning training, put him on horses and made him ride until his thighs ached, read excerpts from strategy texts out loud when Dimitri was sick or otherwise unable to get out of bed. He was a little harsh, yes, but he’d never hurt Dimitri. And to have him so suddenly gone…

Gustave’s absence hurt Dimitri, but it also hurt the whole of the castle. Gustave’s was a position not only difficult to fill, but one built on knowledge exclusive to himself that could be obtained from no other given the last person to hold Gustave’s position was long dead. Rodrigue knew a good deal since the two had spoken on a semi-regular basis, and the others who worked in the castle had a good idea of all the duties he carried out. But there were some things that were lost with him that would likely never be found. Gustave had renounced his title following the Tragedy from what Rodrigue had told Dimitri, so that meant he couldn’t have gone home to lick his wounds Wherever he was, he was gone, and Dimitri missed him dearly.

Though for all Dimitri missed Gustave, he knew it must have been far worse for Annette. She was even younger than he was. Dimitri hadn’t heard anything about her directly a sof late, but if Gustave had disappeared and left everything behind, that must’ve meant he left Annette as well. Though Annette had never come to Fhirdiad and they’d never met in person, Dimitri had heard so many things about her over the years that he thought of her as a sort of distant little sister. Gustave had always spoken so fondly of her and would spend his downtime carving wooden dolls or horses or other little trinkets for her, so he knew the man had to hold some sort of love for his daughter. Dimitri wondered if Gustave had given her any sort of explanation for his actions before he disappeared, or if he had simply run off without a word. 

In a way it was similar to what Rodrigue had done with Felix. But in their case Rodrigue would return to Felix at a later point when he could explain his reasoning and whatever was going on. Dimitri was fairly certain Gustave had no plans of returning home at all.

He also wondered if that sudden flight had put Gustave on the suspect list for the tragedy. He couldn’t imagine Gustave being involved, so he hoped not. Not after that expression. Not after the overwhelming grief he’d displayed at his failure. He surely hadn’t been expecting what had happened. He looked as taken by surprise as Dimitri had. If there was to be an investigation into Gustave’s possible involvement, Dimitri would make sure to defend the man. Not that his word seemed particularly important given how he’d already been silenced on the matter of Duscur. But he had to do something.

That something was for a future day, however. For now Gustave was gone and Dimitri had little time for reminiscing. 

Unlike Gustave, Elias didn’t make any attempts at conversation on the way to the throne room. They didn’t know each other. They had nothing to talk about. They thus walked in silence, the only thing coloring the air being the clack of Dimitri’s heels with each step he took, a constant throbbing in his temple matching the pace. Elias’ heavy armor rattled in a rhythmic fashion alongside it. He kept in sync with Dimitri despite his longer legs at least, which Dimitri greatly appreciated. Fewer noises meant fewer things for his head to pound along to. That was, fewer noises in terms of taking up a pattern, even if each strike was louder than the individual sounds alone. Pain on a schedule was easy to deal with. Predictable pain, almost. He could think around it. If he knew what was coming, no matter how painful it was he would ignore it and take the chance to breathe. He wasn’t so weak as to be taken down by a mere headache, not with all that was expected of him. 

That didn’t mean the walk wasn’t completely wordless. Every time Dimitri and Elias passed someone in the hall, whether it be a member of the castle staff or some minor member of the nobility that was touring the castle or making their way toward wherever they would wait until the ceremony began, those people would invariably say something to Dimitri. First the passerby would gasp, moreso in the case of nobles than servants or guards, and then bow. Like they couldn’t believe they were finally seeing the prince with their own eyes, then remembered their position and the customs of dealing with said prince (whether or not the prince particularly liked those customs and the associated formality). It was the first time nearly any of them had seen Dimitri since the Tragedy, as he hadn’t been allowed in public since that day. Not that the castle could be considered public, especially the inner halls they passed through. But it was more public than anything he’d done so far.

Because of that disconnect, he wasn’t sure if the gasps were because he looked better or worse than expected. He knew little of what people had been told of his condition after Duscur and during his recovery, only that the public had been informed his recovery was taking place. Whether they knew the original extent of his injuries or not was also beyond him. Thus, the gasps and sighs of relief and shock alike at his presence could have been because they’d heard of how terrible his injuries (exaggerated or not) had been and were amazed he’d managed to recover so quickly, or because they hadn’t realized he’d been injured so badly and were horrified by the bags under his eyes and paleness of his skin. 

At least no one tried to kiss his hands. He’d feel rude offering them a glove back, but he wasn’t about to take his gloves off either. They didn’t need to see that. He didn’t want them to see that.

They met with Rodrigue a short time later, intercepting him on their way to the throne room. 

He greeted them with a bow and complete formality. “Good morning, your highness. How are your legs faring?”

“Perfectly fine, thank you. Perhaps we could go for a walk around the gardens later today with Dedue,” Dimitri suggested.

“Perhaps,” Rodrigue matched with a grin, patting Dimitri once on the back. Gentle, but not with the tenderness of fear he’d used the day prior. Gentle because he knew of healing wounds. A welcome touch.

They then walked to the throne room where the ceremony was to take place. Once the formal parts and long announcements were over Dimitri and Rufus would walk out onto the balcony overlooking the main square to announce the transfer of power to the public, but the majority of the official proceedings were to be held inside, so it was there they went. 

Inside the throne room they found Rufus and Cornelia standing by the throne, chatting away at something, while the bishop who was to oversee the ceremony flipped through a large tome at the altar that had been placed nearby for the occasion. 

Why Cornelia was in the throne room, Dimitri hadn’t the slightest idea. As far as he knew, only those actually involved in the ceremony were supposed to be there for their last-minute rehearsal. Thus the prince, the regent, the king’s shield, the major bishop, and the primary guard were ready and waiting. Cornelia was just a doctor. An important one, yes. And a noble. But her position was not particularly high. She was just a Lady, not a Duchess or Countess or anything of the sort. What business did she have being inside when no one else was permitted?

He never got an answer, however, because as soon as Cornelia spotted Dimitri she quickly whispered one last thing to Rufus before curtsying and exiting the room, giving Dimitri one last wink as she passed by. He exchanged a look with Rodrigue to see if the man had an explanation for Cornelia’s surprise appearance, but the man appeared equally puzzled. A quick glance to Elias showed the man didn’t seem to notice anything was wrong. Unless he was that great at hiding his confusion, but Dimitri doubted it. 

Rufus startled when he noticed the new members of the room, before locking eyes with Dimitri and putting on a sleazy grin. He sauntered forward a moment later.

“Ah, just in time!” Rufus announced, chuckling. “I was beginning to wonder if you’d be able to make it. With everything Cornelia has said about you, I thought you might still be confined to bed or something. That would make for an awkward ceremony for sure. I’m glad you can walk though! That’ll definitely make things go a lot smoother today. Which is good, because ceremonies like these can get terribly boring, can’t they?”

Rufus leaned down with his last words, face hovering over Dimitri as he gave Dimitri a hard pat on the back that made his brain bounce around in his skull. He did his best to keep from flinching, holding himself stiff and strong, but he felt himself jerk forward an inch anyway. Rufus didn’t seem to notice, chuckling and taking a step back. Dimitri was glad to have some distance from the man, not appreciating his previous closeness. Rufus was about an inch taller than Lambert and of a similar build, with blond hair a few shades lighter and streaked with grey. 

But where Lambert was kind and welcoming when he approached (and intended to be those two things), Rufus was overbearing. Uncomfortable. Not something Dimitri wanted right over his face, especially when Rufus was decked out in robes just as complex as Dimitri’s (though with far less white and with far more muted blues as opposed to Dimitri’s cobalt) that threatened to suffocate Dimitri with fur when Rufus got too close. 

“At times, yes. But they are necessary, so sometimes we have to grin and bear it for the good of the people. Today is an important day for Faerghus, a day which shall determine the kingdom’s path for the next several years. I’ll do my best to make sure it goes according to plan. I couldn’t do that from my room, and saw no reason to given my recovery, so though I may be late-” which he wasn’t, “I’m here now and ready to proceed.”

Rufus’ grin slipped a little, going lopsided. “Ah. Yeah.” He glanced over to the throne, polished and glorious. “But aside from all that and all that it means for Faerghus, it’s a pretty big day for you and me too, isn’t it? You know, I never thought I’d get a chance to sit on that throne. At least, not after your father was born and his crest was discovered. I still remember the day Mother and Father, your grandparents, found that out. They’d been over the moon when they found out Mother was pregnant, but when they discovered Lambert had a crest? Man, I was worried one of them was going to drop dead from a heart attack or something they seemed so excited! 

“Of course, that just meant I was getting demoted. Or pushed out of the way for a while. However you’d say it. I was a little upset at first, but I’d say it was a good deal. I mean, running a kingdom is a great thing. But to go straight to it after having ruled over nothing but my own room? That would have been a huge change, and I probably wouldn’t have done very well. At least now I have a few decades of running Itha under my belt to help me out, right?”

Running Itha, of course. Itha, which had largely hung on over the years thanks to extra help from the crown, such as food when the fall harvest had gone to waste due to poor distribution and storage strategies, soldiers to come in and fight back bandits who had ravaged the land largely unchecked due to the disorganization of the Ithan forces, personal letters from the king to some discontent nobles who weren’t very happy with their direct overseer…

Itha hadn’t gotten worse over the past few years. But it hadn’t gotten better either, and the only reason it even managed to be in a neutral state was because of Lambert’s constant checks on the area and corresponding aid. Rufus wasn’t necessarily a bad person, or someone with ill intent, but he wasn’t a very competent ruler either.

Still, he continued on without waiting for Dimitri’s response.

“It’s just amazing to be standing here right now,” Rufus said, hands on his hips with his eyes trained on the throne. “All that power, all that influence, right in front of me. It’s a little intimidation, don’t you think?”

Dimitri clenched his fists. He was grateful for his new gloves, lest his fingernails leave more bloody crescents carved into his palms. Couldn’t Rufus be a little more serious about things? “Perhaps,” he responded, voice even and calm. “But as members of the Blaiddyd line, it is our duty to carry that power and the burdens that come with it for the good of our nation. I am sure you will do a fine job of it, uncle. There’s no need to doubt yourself.”

Rufus laughed, finally breaking his staring contest with the throne to look at Dimitri. “Ever the stickler, you. You really are Lambert’s son. Not that there was ever a question with those looks and that crest. But Goddess, you’ve inherited that strict, formal personality of his to a T. You might even be a little more stiff than he was at your age. But today’s a day to celebrate! You should loosen up a little. In fact, I’m getting out the good stuff for the banquet tonight. If you’d like, I’ll let you partake in some of my favorites instead of that boring old watered down wine you usually get.”

“Rufus.” Rodrigue’s voice held a warning.

Rufus scoffed in return. “Please Rodrigue, I’m not trying to hurt the kid. He’s been through a lot, so I’m trying to give him a way to relax. A way he can shake off some of that stress he’s carrying, you know? It can’t be healthy to have shoulders that tense.” Dimitri suddenly became very self conscious. Were his shoulders tense? Rufus was right. They were. He tried to relax them, only half succeeding. Rufus, meanwhile, came to some sort of realization with a small exclamation. “Ah, now that i think of it...shouldn't there be a title there? Would it be King-Regent Rufus? And Your Majesty, now that I’ve gotten to kingly status?”

Dimitri sighed, doing his best not to sound snappy with his next words. Once the words were spoken, he had a feeling he hadn’t done so nearly as well as he would’ve liked. “It would be prince-regent, actually. As the child of a former monarch of the family still in power, you are a prince. Though you are technically taking the place of a king, that gives you the title of regent only, which would then be added on to your title of prince. While you have also been given the title of Grand Duke alongside your rule over Itha more recently, your status as a prince is closer and unique to the royal family. Thus by Faerghan inheritance and title rules, you would be called ‘Prince Regent Rufus.’ And since princes are referred to as ‘Your highness,’ that would be your title as well.”

Surprisingly, the harsh glare he earned from Rufus in the aftermath of his words didn’t sting a bit.

“So we’re both ‘Prince’ then, and both only ‘Your Highness?’ That’s what you’re saying?”

“That would be correct,” Rodrigue answered at the same time the bishop chimed in with a “That is how the title conventions go.”

What a time for a new person to enter the conversation. 

Rufus chose to change the receiving end of his displeasure from Dimitri to the bishop, who blanched under his stare. Had he directed the glare at Rodrigue, he would’ve only earned a hard stare back. Rufus likely knew this. Over the years, Dimitri had learned that Rufus enjoyed intimidating people, but Rodrigue was well known for his ability to withstand questioning and criticism alike. Friendly as he could be, he knew when it was time to get serious. Unfortunately, that meant Rufus didn’t like him very well since Rodrigue wasn’t someone Rufus could just push out of the way when he felt like it.

When the bishop’s eyes dropped back to the tome he’d been looking for, Rufus dropped his glare with a shrug. “Well then, I suppose it doesn’t matter all that much. It just gives you and me another chance to get closer, right Dimitri?” Another harsh pat on the back. This one Dimitri was more prepared for, so he didn’t twitch at all at the contact, despite the pain that lanced up his spine at the contact. Still healing. Still fragile.

Dimitri smiled back to his uncle, putting out a hand. “Exactly. I look forward to your company as we direct Faerghus these next few years.”

Rufus coughed, taking Dimitri’s hand in his own to hastily shake it. As he did, he whispered under his breath, “do you have to keep repeating that? Like I don’t know what’s expected of me, whether or not I want to do it?”

Dimitri supposed he wasn’t supposed to hear that. There was a lot being said around him lately that it seemed like he wasn’t supposed to hear. Why couldn’t people just be upfront with him? He would much prefer honesty, even if the topic or comment wasn’t the most uplifting. 

But in this case, he didn’t know how much it mattered that he’d caught his uncle’s mutterings. Really the comment only aligned with what he’d sen and heard about his uncle. Just another small pebble in the bucket of information he had that would keep him on edge until his uncle was off the throne and Dimitri had taken charge. Dimitri wasn’t exactly raring to go lead an entire kingdom, but it was something he knew he would do someday, and something he worried might be considerably more difficult if Faerghus as a whole followed the path Itha had been on the past few years. Especially because Faerghus no longer had a Lambert to bail it out.

But so long as Rufus didn’t try to start a war, everything would work out. It had to. So Dimitri did his best to ignore the worrying implications Rufus’ actions and comments had. Rufus had a council at his back, so it wasn’t as though he was making his decisions alone. He would have people to check him before he did anything drastic. 

Although… it was Rufus’ choice whether or not to listen to the advice that council gave. There was a very real possibility he would completely ignore them to-

Rodrigue’s voice broke Dimitri out of his quickly spiraling thoughts, loud and not nearly as optional as his question was phrased. “Should we fo a quick run through of the ceremony once to make sure everything is in place?”

The bishop nodded, walking over to Rodrigue’s side. The one further away from Rufus. “That is a sound idea. Prince Dimitri? Grand Duke Rufus?”

“It is a wonderful idea,” Dimitri agreed.

“Sure,” Rufus followed.

Dimitri sensed the collective eye twitch that was shared between himself, Rodrigue, and the bishop.

Only five years to go. Not that long at all.

* * *

Their rehearsal wasn’t long either. Rufus kept rushing it, insisting they didn’t need to listen to all the prayers, just know that they happened and when they happened (since the _priest_ _—_ he did not say bishop, but priest—was the one who needed to say all that and he had a huge book in front of him to read from). So there was no need for them to go over every word of those. He’d grown up in Faerghus; he knew them well enough. And it was a waste of time to say all of the lines after all the practicing they had already done in the days prior, Rufus insisted. All they needed to do was go over the gist of what they were going to say so people knew when someone else had to talk. Everything else only served to make everyone’s throats hurt, and wouldn’t it suck to cough during a grand speech and have to stop to get some water?

Dimitri did agree with the last part. He couldn’t afford a mistake like that. But he also didn’t think an extra thirty minutes of talking would make him keel over in a coughing fit. But Rufus’ requests were taken into account, and thus they finished with plenty of time to spare. Unfortunately, the ceremony was set to start at the top of the hour, so all that meant was that the five people in the room got to spend the next half hour sitting or standing around awkwardly in the throne room until it was time for their audience to enter the hall and take their place to witness the crowning of the regent. 

At five minutes to the hour, Dimitri rose from the chair he’d been sitting in, asking if there was somewhere out of the way it could be placed for the duration of the ceremony. Rodrigue was puzzled at the request, but Dimitri explained it was because his legs were feeling better than expected (they weren’t) and thought since he was doing well, it would be better to stand for the ceremony. They had a good excuse for him to sit, but he felt it would reassure those bearing witness if he was able to stand on his own two feet the entire time. 

Rodrigue initially made a face as though he wanted to object, but Rufus beat him to a response, clapping Dimitri on the back yet again and insisting it be done. An extra chair just distracted from the important things, he said, and Dimitri was old enough to be making his own decisions. With that, one of the members of the castle staff who had entered the room a few minutes before took the chair away from the room, leaving Dimitri with nowhere to sit other than the ground (or the throne, which he wasn’t going to sit on just yet. Not until it was time. It wouldn’t feel right.). Sitting there would be disrespectful, so he would have to stand. Sometimes the best way to keep from doing something undesired was to take the option away entirely.

When the high nobles who had made it to Fhirdiad in time for the ceremony entered the room, Rodrigue’s prediction was proven true. A quick scan of the room revealed only three-quarters of those Dimitri expected had been invited were present. Count Galatea was at the back of the room, his eldest son by his side, but Ingrid was nowhere to be found. Margrave Gautier was in the front row next to Viacount Kleiman, though Dimitri saw neither of his children with him, nor his wife. Count Charon was missing entirely, as were Lord Lonato and his son Christophe (and his three other children, who Dimitri had yet to meet), who Dimitri had met once on a trip to the Gaspard region a few years prior. There was a man in the middle of the room who might have been Count Rowe, but Dimitri was so used to seeing him by his knight Gwendal that he wasn’t sure he could identify the rather plain looking man without him. Lady Conand was not in attendance, but her daughter and heir was, standing next to Lord Leon’s...nephew? The boy’s parents had died when he was young, but Lord Leon was so old Dimitri couldn’t remember if the boy (who was older than Dimitri, and thus not really just a boy) was his nephew or grandson. He needed to look that up sometime so he didn’t embarrass himself or the crown in conversation.

Regardless of who was or wasn’t there (though, it was important to an extent) the big matter was that the room was not nearly as full as it should have been. Not that its residents were meant to be pushed up against each other, but the relative emptiness was noticeable. 

Did that many people really find their paths blocked or duties so heavy that they could not come? Or had they just not wanted to come?

Meanwhile, Rufus looked giddy. Dimitri wondered if he noticed the low turnout. Probably not. 

He didn’t have much time to think about it, as the ceremony began only a short time later. When the bishop began his opening prayers, Dimitri followed along perfectly, eyes closed and hands clasped together, mouthing the words as the bishop spoke them. He’d head suck prayers countless times, so it was almost instinctual to follow along. He had learned to read by going over the words of the church and the Goddess, after all. Though he had come to doubt the validity of those words (though, was doubt too weak a word? doubt implied he still held at least some sort of belief, but his heart had let go of that faith he’d clung to for so long. He had a slight...hope? fear?...that that hope might come back some day, but...perhaps that was wishful thinking to eliminate the guilt of realizing he’d grown up on lies), that didn’t eliminate the years of daily prayers and weekly sermons that were ingrained into the back of his mind. 

Anyone who had their eyes open during the ceremony would see Dimitri following the priests prayers, lips forming each word even without an accompanying voice. They would see his faith, and they would not question whether there was any actual belief behind his actions. It wasn’t necessary or even asked of him, but he’d always mouthed the words alongside the priests at his father’s suggestion, and it would seem odd to those familiar with him if he suddenly stopped doing so. Though it was rude or even unacceptable in some cases to speak alongside the priest or bishop, as it would take away from his voice as he spread the Goddess’ teachings, following along to demonstrate understanding was acceptable and even encouraged. It was a way to channel the Word and the power of the Goddess that the priest brought down from the heavens to Fódlan, or so the teachings said.

So the teachings said. The teachings, unproven as they were. That he’d blindly followed for so long, unquestioning because for so many years even the idea of questioning them never crossed his mind. And when it did it was so blasphemous he immediately banished it.

Now though, his heart didn’t sing with faith. So he allowed himself to open his eyes the slightest bit every so often, small enough that no one would notice from the distance they were at. Always his gaze fell to his uncle. Rufus had his eyes closed at least, but his mouth was a tight line. Lips shut. Head bobbing along to something else.

It wasn’t unacceptable. But it was disappointing nonetheless.

When the bishop moved on from general prayer to those which only the royal family was meant to say, Dimitri allowed his gaze to drift between the bishop and Rufus every few seconds, eyes roaming so he could keep track of what his uncle was doing without seeming too obsessed. The two Blaiddyds were supposed to speak in unison, repeating the bishop’s lines with slight alterations fit for their positions. As they spoke, it soon became obvious Rufus hadn’t bothered to memorize his lines, and perhaps had not even practiced them, instead completely relying on the bishops’ words to guide him. Which became a slight problem when he reached one of the sections he was supposed to alter slightly in his repetition, slipping over the changed words slightly.

It would’ve been nice if Rufus had put a little more effort into preparing for the ceremony. This wasn’t a small affair. It was a once in a lifetime deal that was not only on display for the members of the royal court and other important nobles, but there to set the tone for the kingdom’s next five years. Mistakes, while not world-ending, weren’t exactly great either.

So when Dimitri’s voice carried farther across the room than his uncle’s, the volume difference brought by a confidence difference, he told himself it was all right, because at least Dimitri was sure he would get all of the words right, unlike his uncle. Who did, in fact, slip up on at least four occasions that Dimitri managed to catch. Thankfully they were only minor slip ups that would hopefully be drowned out under Dimitri’s louder, but not inappropriately loud, voice which was saying the right thing. As long as nobody noticed the mistakes. Then it would be okay. 

With the prayers done Rodrigue steeped to the front, licking his lips before he began the long listing of kings and duties and everything important to Faerghus’ history and future. 

And so help him, Rufus spent nearly the entire time Rodrigue spoke fidgeting. Moving his feet, twiddling his thumbs, adjusting his gloves. Dimitri did his best to keep still as he saw his uncle’s slight movements out of the corner of his eye, the small motions beginning to stress him out. That was another effect of Duscur. Movement, big or small, set him on edge. Especially when the movement was at the edge of his vision, where he couldn’t totally see what was going on. It made his heart race and his gloved palms sweat. Stress he wished would go away.

It was worse when Dimitri felt his uncle’s gaze on the back of his neck, the man constantly switching his gaze between Rodrigue, Dimitri, and the audience in front of him that suggested he thought he was being subtle but really wasn’t. Far movements stressed Dimitri out, but so did the feeling of being watched. It made him feel as though someone was out to get him, to leap on him from out of the shadows or from behind and take him out before he had the chance to so much as lift a finger.

Dimitri took a deep breath. Or, as deep a breath as he could take without it being too obvious to the large crowd staring at him, watching his every move. Dimitri just had to keep his head. Only two sections to go. Rodrigue’s speech and the crowning. Rodrigue’s speech and his own. He could last that long.

Rufus himself hardly had anything to say during the ceremony. His longest consecutive speech came during the opening prayers, as he joined Dimitri in repeating the prayers the bishop had selected and tradition had dictated. Of the four main participants, he was actually the one with the fewest words to give. Almost ironic, given the whole ceremony was about passing the power and responsibilities of the kingdom to him, so one would think he would have a leading role as opposed to a more passive one. But so was tradition, only ever carried out one time before. The bishop would lead the prayers. Rodrigue would explain the kingdom’s history and king’s duties. Dimitri would repeat a shortened version, finally giving Rufus a chance to speak his own words as Dimitri asked his uncle questions to which Rufus was to reply either ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Although in this case the only real option was to say ‘yes.’ Dimitri couldn’t ask Rufus if he would keep Faerghus’ best interests at heart in all he did only for Rufus to reply ‘no.’ If that happened…

Frankly Dimitri didn’t even want to consider the outcome of that situation. He’d probably die of a heart attack on the spot with how hard his heart was already pounding even as he remained quiet while Rodrigue spoke. 

Though Rufus only theoretically had a choice of whether or not to say ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ The was only one acceptable answer to all the questions Dimitri would pose, and he prayed to the Flames that Rufus wouldn’t be an idiot (whether in misinterpreting the question or trying to be funny) and mess it up. Repeated lengthy prayers and missing a word or two while someone with a stronger voice said his lines correctly was acceptable. Messing up a word when only one word was spoken at a time and he was the only one speaking would be beyond terrible. Beyond unacceptable. 

Thus Dimitri was very, very relieved when Rufus got his act together and didn’t mess up any responses during his section, after Rodrigue had handed Dimitri the crown and Dimitri stood over his uncle, kneeling before him, and asked Rufus if he promised to carry out each of his blood’s duties, one by one. He replied yes to them all. Promises Dimitri prayed he would fulfill. 

When it was done, Dimitri put up his most warm and peaceful smile, one he hoped conveyed gratitude and love to his people, and gave Rufus his blessing before placing the Crown of Blaiddyd on his uncle’s head.

Rufus kissed Dimitri’s hand and rose. He then addressed their audience giving a short speech that lasted no more than a minute and a half rather than the five or ten that were expected. Finally, he turned to take his leave. Elias followed two feet behind, the two exiting the throne room with surprisingly little fanfare. Next was Dimitri, Rodrigue sticking close to his side, his presence welcome. The bishop brought up the rear.

Once they’d reached a side room for their final exchange, Rufus erupted in a smile. He let out a very audible sigh of relief.

“See, I told you!” he exclaimed, practically skipping over to Dimitri to ruffle his hair. 

Dimitri frowned at that. He’d had to sit for much longer than he ever wanted to sit for hairstyling that morning as the servants brushed and worked on his newly cropped hair to get it to look nice, so he cringed at the idea of having to sit down and have all of that done again before the afternoon feast. Or banquet. Whichever word they were calling it. Maybe Dimitri could flatten it himself and convince the servants it looked good enough? Or just avoid them like the plague until there wasn’t enough time for them to do anything at all and he could sneak away to his place at the table before they could get to him. It didn’t look bad at all. Just not extremely styled to the point of frivolity. 

Rufus didn’t notice his displeasure, walking around the room as his grin grew ever wider. “It went perfectly! You didn’t need to worry about a thing, kid, I had it all down.”

The bishop drew in a sharp breath at that. Dimitri had a feeling the man was about to protest that statement, having noticed Rufus’ handful of mistakes during the prayer, but decided not to once he considered the fact that Rufus was now the ruler of his kingdom. Earlier corrections had been slightly more acceptable because at that time Rufus had only been Grand Duke, and Dimitri who agreed with the bishop held power that overrode Rufus’. But now Rufus was officially the one with the highest position and power, with Dimitri taking the second seat. So the bishop kept silent, Rufus remaining uncorrected.

“Of course, uncle. I do tend to stress out over the little things,” Dimitri replied, bowing before he took a step toward the door. “Now if you would excuse me, I would like to go for a quick walk through the gardens before we meet for the feast. I’ve only just been allowed on my feet again and have missed the outdoors. Would you like to join me?” His question was posed for the sake of politeness, but he hoped the answer was no.

Thankfully, it was.

“Gardens?” Rufus asked, one eyebrow raised. “No thanks. I have other things to be doing, people I’d like to see. The gardens will always be there but today will only come today, so I think I’ll pass. You have fun with that though! You can tell me about it while we eat if anything exciting happens. Maybe you’ll see a cool bug!”

Dimitri blinked a few times. Cool bug? He had wanted to go to the garden to check out the plants with Dedue, but he hadn’t even considered the bugs. Would any be out at this time? It was summer, so if there was ever a time for bugs that time would be now. Maybe he would see a cool bug. He’d have to keep an eye out.

Rufus’ grin dropped a little, and Dimitri realized he’d taken too long to reply. He straightened, stuttering slightly as he tried to get out an adequate response. 

“Yes, yes, of course uncle. I will report any interesting bugs to you the best I can. We could go look for them together another day if that would please you.”

Rufus’ eyebrows crinkled a little, but he nodded. “Ah, yeah. If that’s fun for you. We can...look at bugs together. Yeah. That’s what I came to Fhirdiad for…” his voice grew quiet with his last few words, almost unsure. Dimitri didn’t quite get it.

Rodrigue cleared the awkwardness in the air by clearing his throat, drawing everyone’s attention. “Well then, if that’s decided, how about I walk you over your highness?”

“That would be fine,” Dimitri responded, followed by Rufus who called out, “that sounds good to me!”

With that Rufus exited the room with Elias, the bishop bowing and thanking Dimitri for his performance in the day’s ceremony before he too took his leave.

Finally alone, Rodrigue looked back down to Dimitri. “Shall I send someone to collect Dedue and ask for tea to be brought to the gardens?”

“If you would.”

“Always.”

Rodrigue exited the room with only a few steps. Dimitri leaned against the wall as he waited for Rodrigue to return, wishing the room had windows to look out of. It was a safe room though, and thus windows were off limits. There were a pair of arrow loops, but boxes had unfortunately been placed in front of them and Dimitri didn’t want to be caught trying to move them around for a glimpse outside. In any case it took less than a minute for Rodrigue to return, so Dimitri’s disappointment was quickly washed away as Rodrigue called for Dimitri to join him as they made their way to the gardens where Dedue would join them as soon as he was notified the ceremony had been completed and Dimitri was ready to see him. 

Anything to get out of the stuffy room they were in. To take his mind off the responsibilities he knew he had to bear, and would support with all his strength when the time came, but was not quite yet ready to handle. It was amazing how much could change in the course of a few short weeks.

But it wasn’t the time to be thinking such dark thoughts. Spending time with Dedue was going to be fun, not depressing, so it was better to think of happy things instead. What happy things there were to think about Dimitri wasn’t entirely sure. But he’d come up with some. Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, ranting/rambling about research: Me, someone who has taken a class on medieval castles and is currently doing a summer internship that involves labeling medieval castles: must...not...use overly specific but applicable language… wall walk is much more well known than allure...even though I love the word allure… would I say he peeked his head out in one of the crenels, after hiding behind the merlons? Standing on a parapet? Careful not to fall into the holes in the floor from the machicolations? Which had been added a dozen years prior to replace the hoardings which had been there? Whose put holes could still be seen? After- okay no one is interested in this I will move on.... Though, some day I want to figure out a way to include murder holes because that is the official term and I love it. Good luck getting through the gatehouse! Also yes fantasy medieval europe has CPR. My fic my rules. To continue on that note, I am suddenly regretting never checking out that medieval fabric book I saw while working at my university library. I was on the job and putting it away, but I could’ve grabbed it from the stacks and checked it out. Then I would feel happier about Dimitri’s outfit but...oh well. I’m about 2,500 miles away from uni right now and won’t go back for another month. Thanks to Fashion in the Middle Ages by Margaret Scott though. I’m doing my best with the free preview. Did you know that cobalt wasn’t really a thing until the 19th century? At least, not the one we know. But apparently some cobalt glass from the middle ages has been found, so I’ll allow Dimitri some cobalt clothes. Especially after 40 minutes down the rabbit hole of looking this stuff up.
> 
> Now, stuff about the fic itself: My idea of Rufus is of someone who doesn’t care about what he's doing or genuinely doesn't realize he’s doing a bad job at kingdom stuff. A lot of issues he doesn’t think are his concern. There are other people for that, right? Or, that thing isn’t that important, right? We can leave it be, it’ll fix itself. Oh there’s no need to try so hard. Ehhh, I don’t want to do that. It’s a lot of effort. So basically, he’s not so much sabotaging Faerghus (at least in the first few years before Cornelia influence and so on) so much as constantly making poor decisions that are not good for the kingdom or Dimitri. Dimitri is thus frustrated with him because Rufus isn't necessarily a bad person, just someone blind to what he's doing and not particularly invested in fixing his actions, which frustrates Dimitri. He can't hate him, but Rufus does get on his nerves. 
> 
> Until next time,  
> Mariyekos.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're thinking, 'hey, where is everyone else?' the answer is...in future chapters! Which makes me think maybe I should've saved the tags till then, but I'll keep them in anyway. Should I tag Lambert as a character? He shows up a lot in this and future chapters, but given he's just a construct of Dimitri's mind and thus not really in character to his living counterpart, probably not.
> 
> This is more stream-of-consciousness and violent than most things I've written. It'll keep that claim for the most part, though some future panic attacks show some of that again. It's coming soon, possibly next Friday depending on how fast I get IRL things going.
> 
> Please consider leaving a review if you have the time! This fic covers some heavier topics than I normally go for, and a time period we don't really see in canon, so I'd love to know how you think I'm doing. Thank you for reading, and until next time.


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